


Waiting for the Light

by 1917farmgirl



Category: Andromeda (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Friendship, Gen, Harper's Past, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 03:06:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 68
Words: 199,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6498325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1917farmgirl/pseuds/1917farmgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              
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  <p>Sometimes to know where you're going, you have to face where you've been.  <br/>Sometimes to know the true meaning of friendship, you have to take a journey in the dark.</p>
  <p>
    <i>2017 FROG winner at HPFT for "Best Other Fandom."</i>
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	1. Prologue

 

 

**Waiting for the Light**

**Disclaimer:** I don’t own any of them. This is just for fun.  
**Season:** Mid Season 3 then veers AU

**Author’s note:** This is the first Andromeda story I started, and it will probably end up being the last one I finish. It has taken years (yes, I said _years_ ) to write this story. Over that time, my writing has changed. I hope it has changed for the better, but I’m not the one to judge. I could go back and edit this story heavily, but I find I don’t want to. My writing might not consistently be what I wish it was in this work, and some parts might make me cringe to read today, but this story is more than just a fan-fiction now. It’s a portion of my life, spread out in words. I see how I’ve changed and grown through its paragraphs, both as a writer and as a person. Fixing everything would erase that history, so I’m going to leave it as it is, with the exception of a few edits to correct typos, spelling, and fix my opening quotes into a consistent pattern.

Thank you to those who have read and reviewed this over the years. You have given me some of my most precious memories, as well as the encouragement to continue to write.

This story was also triggered in part by one written by SparkyCola titled “Lose the Earring, Kid.” Check it out, it’s awesome.

*****

**Sometimes to know where you’re going you have to face where you’ve been. Sometimes to know the true meaning of friendship, you have to take a journey in the dark.**

**Prologue**

_I have lived an undirected life,_   
_A cloudy way I know,_   
_The only way I knew._   
_Still the things I’ve done,_   
_In fact each and every one,_   
_Are the way that I was taught to run._

_I am waitin’ for the light to shine, I’m waitin’ for the light to shine.  
I have lived in the darkness for so long, I am waitin’ for the light to shine._

_\- Roger Miller, Big River_

*****

The room was quiet and dark, its dim lights casting the plain grey walls into shadows, giving it a solemn feeling. A quick glance around and any observer would have assumed the place was empty, but sometimes the eyes can be tricked. Sitting silently on his couch, lost in thought, the room’s occupant was indeed present, at least in body.

Sighing quietly, Captain Dylan Hunt unconsciously took a sip from his cup of coffee, his mind still miles away. The last mission, though stressful and a bit annoying, had been a success and at the moment, the universe seemed willing to give them a break. No one was shooting at, shouting at, or slugging at them for the time being, which was just fine with him. As much as he craved action, a little down-time now and then never did any harm.

Shifting slightly, his thoughts returned to the last mission as if drawn by invisible strings. It hadn’t been all that unusual, just the standard rescue mission with impossible odds and last minute timing. _Andromeda_ being needed elsewhere, Beka, Harper, and he had gone down in the _Maru_ to rescue a small band of colonists before the mountain they had unwisely chosen as their home blew its top. Amid falling ash, soot, and baseball-sized chunks of rock, the three had managed to get everyone onboard before an encore performance of Pompeii was staged. Besides enduring complaints about the damage those “blasted” rocks had done to the _Maru_ , Dylan had thought they were home free.

Too bad it’s never easy.

Deciding they hadn’t had enough excitement, one of the refugees had proceeded to go into labor with the _Andromeda_ still at least three hours away. Beka had quickly, almost frantically, declared herself completely useless in the area of delivering babies and strapped herself into the pilot’s chair with a look promising severe bodily harm to any who tried to remove her.

Somehow, Dylan was not surprised by this.

But he was by what occurred next.

Desperately racking his brain for emergency medical procedures that had been stashed away since his academy days (and for him, that was a _long_ time ago), he tried to contain his panic. Save worlds from unhinged mad-men with demonic plans, win battles outnumbered twenty to one, out-talk corrupt politicians, these things he could do. Deliver babies? That was a little out of his league. Where was Trance when you needed her? This was one situation he had no idea how to take charge of.

And then suddenly, he’d realized he didn’t have to.

While he’d been arguing with Beka and himself, Harper had quietly stepped in and taken charge. And it was the “quietly” part that had surprised him almost as much as the taking charge. With a calmness and a gentleness he would never have associated with the hyperactive engineer, Harper took the situation right in stride. Shoving his astonishment aside to be dealt with later, Dylan accepted Harper’s orders without complaint. By the time they docked with Andromeda three hours and forty-five minutes later, Dylan was exhausted and the _Maru_ ’s passenger list had gone up by one.

It was only after all their guests had been provided for, and mother and child were safely in Trance’s gifted hands, that Dylan slowed down long enough to resume his astonishment, which quickly turned to frustration. Harper was his mechanic, his engineer, his friend. Harper talked too fast, rarely thought first, and could whip a miracle out of thin air faster than you could say “now.” Harper liked women, but they seldom liked him. He drank too much caffeine, never got enough sleep, and was fiercely loyal to his friends. Harper was like an annoying kid brother, you dream of peace and quiet, but it only takes you about five-point-two minutes to realize you miss him when he’s gone. After three years working with the young man, Dylan thought he knew him, thought he had him pegged. So how the heck had he blindsided him like he did today? He was frustrated, not at Harper, but at himself and wondering if he really knew his crew as well as he thought he did.

Almost without realizing it, Dylan had found himself entering the _Maru_ where he knew Harper would still be checking the ship for any damage they might have received on the trip. Walking into the engine room, he greeted Harper’s cheery “hey Boss” with a like reply and willingly engaged in small talk for a while as Harper gathered up his tools.

They left the ship and hanger together and at the door Dylan couldn’t resist any longer. After telling Harper he’d handled the emergency very well, he’d asked him where he ever learned how to play midwife.

An innocent question, or at least it had seemed like it at the time. One simple little question, and yet it was the reason he was still sitting here, in the dark, hours after the mission was over. No wait, that wasn’t quite true. It wasn’t the question that caused this bout of reflection but rather the answer.

Dylan had asked the question with a grin, expecting a cocky reply about how “the Harper was good.” He had been slightly surprised to suddenly find himself the subject of a very searching look from his young friend. After a moment, Harper had turned away and started toward his machine shop. The answer was murmured so quietly Dylan wasn’t even sure it was meant to be said out loud, but the words hung in the air around him just the same, sucking his breath away.

“You can learn a lot as a slave.”


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

_Would you be safe, then never dare_  
For greater things—  
Quit not the beaten thoroughfare,   
Nor try your wings;  
But when the path of chance you choose,  
Still play the man, although you lose. 

_\- Edgar E. Guest_

*****

_“You can learn a lot as a slave.”_

The words echoed round and round in Dylan’s brain as he sat staring at nothing. Images of Harper flashed past as well: Harper in his bright clothes, laughing and grinning, extolling his own newest and greatest creation, Harper full of endless energy and countless jokes. Then there was the new image which had been so rudely shoved into his mind along with the others, the image of Harper the slave. It was not one he cared to acknowledge, and yet it wouldn’t leave him alone. He found it hard to imagine the lively boy as a pitiful slave; the thought was disturbing. It was an image he wasn’t ready for and it shocked him, although it shouldn’t have. He’d been prepared for it in the past; he just chose to forget. Suddenly, he was pulled back to a different memory, more than a year old.

*****

_“Hey, Beka, wait up,” Dylan called to the blonde captain as he walked toward her in the corridor. She turned and stopped, waiting for him to catch up._

_Dylan looked her over carefully. It had only been a day since their fateful reunion with one Bobby Jensen but she appeared decidedly better._

_“Yeah, Dylan? What did you need?” Beka asked._

_“Oh, nothing. Just checking to see if you’re all right.”_

_A sly smile spread across Beka’s face. “Checking to see if I’m okay? Hum… should I be worried? You want me to do something for you, don’t you!” she finished triumphantly with an accusing finger pointed at his chest._

_“What? No!” Dylan threw his hands up in mock defense. “Can’t a captain be concerned for his crew without having an ulterior motive? What makes you think I’d want something from you?”_

_“You obviously haven’t been around Harper long enough. A ‘Hey Boss, how’s it goin’?’ is usually followed by a ‘Boss, can I please…’ request. You learn to stay on your toes with the kid around.”_

_“The boy is enthusiastic, I’ll give you that,” Dylan agreed with a chuckle. “How’s he doing, by the way? Yesterday was rather rough on him as well.” Dylan watched Beka cautiously, not sure how she’d react to mention of yesterday’s events._

_“He’s fine,” Beka shrugged. “Actually, he’s probably celebrating. He and Bobby never… Well, you heard him.”_

_“Heard and saw, actually,” Dylan smiled._

_“Oh yeah, that’s right. He did show you that recording he made, didn’t he.”_

_“Yes, and it was very enlightening,” Dylan laughed, then added with genuine interest, “Is that honestly what Harper looked like when you met him?” He’d found it hard to believe that the scrawny, ragged, bruised kid he’d seen in that recording could really be his engineer._

_“Worse, actually,” Beka admitted. “He was so thin under those clothes that I swear it was hard to see him when he turned sideways. And I know for a fact he’d never been introduced to the concept of frequent showers. It took me an hour just to convince him it was safe to get in. All the grime that washed off him clogged up my drain for at least two days and his clothes literally fell apart when I tried to wash them. He had to make do with a tank-top and a pair of my pajama bottoms until we could stop at a drift. He thought he was gonna die of embarrassment.” She laughed at the memory, then grew serious again, a touch of sadness creeping into her voice. “I’d never seen so many bruises on one kid. It looked like twenty people had used him as a human punching bag. I tried to ask him about them, but you know Harper. He just shrugged it off and asked me what we had to eat.”_

_Dylan frowned slightly at this revelation but chose not to comment. Instead, he retreated to a safer topic. “Well, judging from what I saw, I’d say the pj’s were probably an improvement,” he whispered conspiratorially. Then, remembering something, he asked curiously, “Was that an earring I saw on him in that recording? I never really thought of Harper as the earring type.”_

_Beka stopped short as though Dylan’s question had triggered an unpleasant memory. For a few moments she stared straight ahead with an unreadable expression etched on her face. Finally, she turned to Dylan and spoke in a strained voice, “Dylan, don’t ever bring up that earring with Harper, okay?”_

_“Why not?”_

_“Just don’t. Trust me on this,” Beka said more forcefully. Her tone of voice told Dylan to drop it, but he couldn’t help but be intrigued. There was a story here, he could smell it, and he was never one to take the easy way out._

_“Come on, Beka. What could be so bad about one little earring?” he persisted. “Did he get drunk and wake up with it attached or something?”_

_Beka glanced at the stubborn captain and spoke more harshly than she intended. “No, the Nietzschean slavers stuck it on him when they dragged him away from his parents’ grave and chained him up to be sold.”_

_Dylan’s smile froze on his face and his voice momentarily deserted him as he struggled to process her words. Finally, he stuttered out an astonished response. “Harper is a slave?”_

_Seeing his shock, Beka softened her tone. “_ Was _a slave,” she emphasized. “And that earring represents everything he despised and tried to forget about his past. So do us all a favor and don’t ever bring it up. It’s not something Harper likes to talk about. In fact, he’d probably kill me if he knew we were even having this conversation so I’m just gonna go now and let’s forget it ever happened,” Beka stated firmly and stalked away, leaving Dylan no doubt that the conversation was over._

*****

Dylan sighed as his thoughts returned from the past. He had never really forgotten about that exchange with Beka…who could? He had, however, shoved it to the dark recesses of his brain and not thought about it for a long time. This was partly because he felt a bit guilty for having corned Beka into revealing something Harper was obviously extremely sensitive about. Dylan felt, foolish or not, that he owed it to the young man to forget he ever heard what he did. But it was also partly because he didn’t want to think about it. Oh, he was well aware that the universe could be a cold, uncaring place. He’d seen things, heard things, even done things that made his insides crawl with disgust, but he always liked to hold out hope that those things were the exception, not the rule. He needed to have faith in the universe, in its innate goodness, or his mission had no meaning. And realizing how much suffering said universe had caused one of his friends violently rocked that core faith. It also made him incredibly sad to think what that ever-present grin was used to hide. So he had taken the unsettling revelations and thrust them as far away as he could keep them; until today when that very young man had unintentionally let them lose. 

Shaking his head, Dylan looked down at his cup, noticing that his coffee had long since gone stone cold. He reached forward and set his mug down on the low table, stretching stiff limbs. If he didn’t pull himself out of this pensive mood soon, Rommie or one of the others was bound to pop in and ask what was bothering him. Brooding in the dark wasn’t going to change anything. Nothing he did could erase the pain of Harper’s past. The only thing he could do was try his hardest to keep that pain from rearing its ugly head in his friend’s future as well. That was something he intended to work very hard at, and right now the best way to do that was to pull himself together and get back to his job.

“Lights,” he called to Rommie, standing and hoping she wouldn’t notice the cracking of certain joints that didn’t appreciate the change of position. With a new determination, he ducked into the bathroom. He quickly splashed a little water on his face to thoroughly ground him back to the present and, after a glance in the mirror, walked back into his main room ready to head for command.

“Dylan.” 

Rommie’s holographic form shimmered into existence in front of him, blocking his path to the door. “I’m receiving a message from Tarazed addressed to you. I thought you might like to view it before you left your quarters.” 

Dylan smiled. It appeared that the powers-that-be had decided their break was long enough; time to get back on the old risk-life-and-limb wagon. 

“Thanks, Rommie,” he said as he sat down at his desk. “Let’s see what hoops they need us to jump through now. Play the message.”


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_Don’t get mad at somebody who knows more ’n you do. It ain’t their fault._

\- Old Earth Saying

*****

“Holy schniky.”

Rommie’s holograph blinked into the mainframe next to her engineer’s. “Harper, that isn’t even a real word,” she chided.

“Is to,” he replied distractedly. He approached a data grid and let out a low whistle. “Rom-Doll, what the heck have you been doin’? Practicing your Boy Scout knots on the data streams?” He prodded the pulsing, flashing mass with a tentative virtual finger and a small spark flew out and struck him.

“Ouch!” he cried, jumping backwards. “Rommie!”

“Sorry, Harper,” she replied, “but it wasn’t really my fault you know. Besides, you do sort of deserve it for implying I would ever do this to myself on purpose.” She crossed her arms and gave him a stern glare. “So, can you fix it?”

Harper plastered a hurt expression across his face and finally turned to face her. “Can I fix it?” he asked incredulously. “Rommie, do you remember who you’re talkin’ to, ‘Seamus the freakin’ genius Harper’? Of course I can fix it. Piece of cake.”

“Well, do it then, please,” Rommie said. “It’s interfering with my sensors and communications, which is rather annoying.”

Even as she was speaking, Harper’s brain was already formulating the solution, calculating the time it would take, and contemplating what he should have for dinner. He turned and favored Rommie with his trade-marked grin. “Don’t worry, Babe. I’ll have ya tip-top in no time. Just a few tweaks here and there and you’ll be good as new. No…better than new. Heck, I could make a whole new you!”

“Harper,” Rommie sighed but without any real exasperation, “just fix the problem.”

“Sure thing,” Harper replied. Then he turned serious. “I’m gonna have to shut down certain parts of your sensors and communications, your holograph included, for a little while, though. You okay with that?”

“Just do what you need to.”

“Don’t worry, it won’t take that long. I’ll have ya back up and runnin’ in time for dinner. Hey, dinner! What a great idea! Whaddaya say my place, around seven, candle-light…” Harper grinned suggestively at the beautiful projection. Rommie didn’t even dignify that with a response; she simply glared at him and flickered out.

“Hey, can I take that as a yes?” Harper asked the empty air around him with a smirk. Another jolt of electricity shot out and hit his arm. “Um…okay, I’ll take that as a no. Fine! I get it, I get it. Get to work,” he muttered as he rolled his eyes. 

Alone once more, or as alone as he ever got on this all-knowing, all-seeing warship, Harper turned to one of the matrixes and got busy. He quickly shut off the systems he needed to and then cautiously approached the mass of data again. Without the power it had been sucking from the affected systems, it was smaller and less… um…energetic. As he set about the tedious but not particularly difficult job of picking apart knots of data, Harper let his mind drift, slipping into an uncharacteristically somber mood. 

Today had been a long day. A very long day. The strange events had chipped mercilessly away at the hidden locks of his mind, threatening to release the floodgates and let all the memories pour out. He wasn’t sure… No, he was absolutely sure he couldn’t deal with that right now. He didn’t regret helping the woman, of course not, but it made him so frustrated that he couldn’t do a stupid thing like help a woman in labor without triggering nightmares! Normal people didn’t have monsters waiting to ambush them if the wrong thing was said or done. It wasn’t fair and it made him angry. Angry at the universe, angry at the monsters in his head, and angry at himself for not being able to keep them locked away. He had long ago conceded defeat to the memories at night, but the daytime was different; he was supposed to be in charge then. Today, however, those memories had once again breached their strong box during the day, and as a result he had let something slip he shouldn’t have and to Dylan no less. Now the captain knew part of who he truly was, knew his true value, or lack thereof. Harper shuddered at the thought, both out of anger and out of shame. No, it definitely wasn’t fair.

The sound of a man’s voice jerked Harper out of his thoughts. One of the data streams he’d been messing with had swung off and collided with another and suddenly Harper was privy to a conversation he was pretty sure wasn’t meant for his eyes. Dylan was in his quarters talking with a man on his view screen. Harper didn’t know the guy, but his clothes and attitude practically screamed “High Guard Command.” The engineer figured this was a highly classified communication, something he would never have been able to access without Dylan’s own codes, except for the fact that this little knot of data he’d been working on had seriously screwed up communications. Chalk one up to being in the right place at the right time.

Harper knew he should do the upright, honest, and decent thing and shut it down before he heard something he shouldn’t. He was, after all, eavesdropping.

_“Dylan, you know you’re the best one for this assignment. If we can manage to pull this off and find it first, it could be worth a fortune.”_

With a grin, Harper mentally pulled up a chair, sat down, and got out the popcorn. Besides, after today, he figured Dylan owed him a secret.

_“Look, Admiral, with all due respect, treasure hunting just isn’t my style,” Dylan said with exasperation. “And if I recall correctly, the last time I did that, the commonwealth tried to arrest me for murder. Now you’re **asking** me to go off on some crazy trip?” He raised his eyebrows at the man on the screen. “Besides, we don’t have time for this. The worldship is coming closer and I should be here, on Andromeda, focusing on getting ready.”_

_“Dylan, we have it on good authority that all six jewels have been located. If we can recover them and return them to the royal house, the Bix Tan just might join the commonwealth. That would be one more world and one more fleet behind us when that worldship comes. Now I know it won’t be a walk in the park; you’d probably be heading into technical traps right and left, not to mention hostile situations, but we feel it is worth the risk and with your background, you are the man for the job.”_

_Dylan sighed. “Fine. When do I go and what do I get to tell my crew?”_

_The High Guard fancy-pants smiled. “You simply tell your crew you are taking two weeks leave for personal reasons.”_

From his unauthorized view within the mainframe, Harper smirked. ‘Like that excuse would work!’ he scoffed. These High Guard spoofs were never gonna learn that you can’t out con a con. Dylan might make it off the Andromeda alone, but no one would ever buy that pathetic “personal leave” crap.

So, Dylan was going on another little lark across the galaxy. Harper smiled. A treasure hunt… hehehehe, a treasure hunt for Hunt… a treasure hunt full of technical traps. And who better to have along than the resident genius of all things technical? The High Guard wanted Captain Terrific to go alone on this little mission, but he wasn’t going to, not if Seamus Zelazny Harper had anything to do with it. A great romping, high-stakes fling around the universe was just what he needed right now to shove those demons of his back in their cages. 

_“You will leave in four hours. Watson out.”_

Harper jumped as he caught the last bit of the transmission, realizing he hadn’t been paying attention for a second. 

“Four hours! Oh, crap,” he muttered and quickly cut the rouge communication link. He pulled the last few strands of tangled data apart roughly and set about restoring the affected systems. He was gonna have to hurry.

*****

“Dylan, cut the crap. _You_ take personal leave? At least give me a better excuse than that! Harper comes up with better excuses than that!”

Beka stood in the doorway of his quarters, her arms crossed and eyes blazing. Dylan looked up for a moment from the bag he was stuffing clothes into but didn’t go any closer. He was busy and she was…well…scary. But she was also right. It was a lame excuse.

“Look, Beka, believe what you want. That still doesn’t change the fact that I’m leaving for two weeks and you are in command while I’m gone. Oh, and I’m gonna need the _Maru._ ”

“What!” she exploded. “Why the _Maru_? Why is it always the _Maru_? Can’t you take a slip fighter?”

“Ah, no. Sorry.”

“You waltz out of here for two weeks leaving me to baby-sit and won’t tell me where you’re going, and then you have the gall to tell me you’re taking _my_ ship?”

Dylan held his hands up in a placating gesture and stepped warily toward her. “Hey, hey, I’ll be good to her. Besides, I’m leaving you _my_ ship in return. I kinda think that’s a fair trade.”

She glared again but didn’t respond for a moment. Finally, she sighed and uncrossed her arms. “So, nothing I can do to get you to tell me where you’re going?”

“Nope.”

“Offer to drive ya there?”

“Nope.”

“Do your laundry?”

“Ah, no.”

“Okay, fine. Whatever. Just don’t expect us to come bail your sorry butt out in two weeks when you’ve gotten yourself in over your head.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Dylan replied with a smile.

Beka returned the smile as she turned to leave, then she stopped. “Oh, and Dylan, don’t hurt my ship.”

“Same goes for you. And try to keep Harper and Tyr out of trouble?”

“Hey, I’m only a captain, not a god. I won’t promise any miracles.”

*****

Beka stomped grumpily into her quarters and stopped in the middle of the room. She was pouting and she knew it, but she didn’t care. She had watched Dylan take off in her ship a little over an hour ago for some adventure and not only did that mean she’d been left behind, but it also meant she had to content herself with her quarters on _Andromeda_ for two weeks. She liked them but they still weren’t home, and after a stressful day she liked to relax in familiar settings. She felt she was justified to indulge in a little pouting. 

She was just about to head for the shower when something on the bed caught her eye. It was a flexi. Curious, she walked over and picked it up.

_Hey Boss. Just wanted to let you know I won’t be around for a little while. Big Boss has got himself a little adventure to go off on and, as we all know how he likes to get himself in trouble, I figured someone had better go along to keep an eye on him. Therefore, I’m hereby authorizing myself to accompany him. Thanks. So, take care of the kids while I’m gone, give Tyr a hug for me, and don’t forget to put the cat out at night, okay? I promise I’ll be a good boy. See ya soon! - Harper_

Beka read it twice as her eyes started to blaze. She read it a third time just to make sure she wasn’t seeing things. She wasn’t.

Three decks down, Tyr heard the strange screeching sound and stopped his workout to listen.

“HARPER, YOU LITTLE RAT! I’M GONNA KILL YOU!”

The large man rolled his eyes. At least life was never boring.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_Explorers we are, intrepid and bold,_  
Out in the wild, amongst wonders untold  
Equipped with our wits, a map, and a snack,  
We’re searching for fun and we’re on the right track! 

\- Bill Watterson, The Indispensable Calvin and Hobbes

*****

Harper waited a good hour and a half before he slipped out of his hiding place and into the common area. He was sitting calmly at the table drinking a Sparky and reading a back issue of “Intergalactic Surfers Unlimited” when Dylan walked in.

“Hiya, Boss.”

“AUGHHHHH!” Dylan screamed and jumped three feet into the air. He swore emphatically as he stared at Harper in open shock.

“Mr. Harper, what in the name of the Vedran Empress are you doing on this ship?” he demanded once he’d hit the ground and slightly gathered his wits.

“Reading,” Harper answered innocently.

“Harper!” Dylan growled. The look on Dylan’s face was quickly moving from confusion to frustration to outright murderous and Harper realized the time for jokes was not now. He quickly got to his feet, setting the can down and raising his hands in surrender.

“Look, Dylan, I accidentally tapped into the message from Tarazed when I was fixing the communications systems.” Dylan’s eyebrows narrowed and he stepped threateningly toward his engineer. Harper scurried backward out of his reach and hurried on before the captain could open his mouth. “It was an _accident_ , I promise. I know I shouldn’t have listened but I was intrigued, okay? Then when I figured out what they wanted you to do, I figured you could probably use my help. You really shouldn’t go off on these trips alone, you know.” Harper finished his rapid flood of words and gazed up hopefully at the captain.

Dylan ran his hand through his hair and sighed in frustration at the young man. When he signed up for the High Guard, he’d never thought he’d have to deal with things like this, with people like this. This was not in his contract! He was sure he’d read the fine print and babysitting was never mentioned.

“Harper, this is a classified mission!”

“Not anymore,” Harper muttered cheekily, then caught a flash of Dylan’s ‘you-have-two-seconds-to-explain-yourself-before-I-harm-you-severily’ look and gulped.

“Boss, I’m sorry, okay. I shouldn’t have listened, and I won’t do it again, I promise. I’ve been bad and I’ll make sure to shut my fingers in the door or something later, but right now I’m here and believe it or not I probably really can help ya. That guy said you would have to get through some pretty technical stuff and admit it, I rule at technical. Besides, we made a freakin’ good team last time, remember?” 

Dylan sighed again but this time out of fatigue rather than frustration. If he turned around to take the kid back now, he’d lose almost four hours. Besides that, something Harper had said had grabbed his attention. He was sure his engineer had meant it in jest but the thought of Harper even teasing about having to punish himself reminded Dylan of where his thoughts had been before this crazy mission call came. He remembered the haunted look on Harper’s face when he muttered he’d been a slave and suddenly all the anger just drained out of Dylan. He looked at Harper closely and beneath the cocky smile he could see the pleading in his eyes. Maybe, just maybe, the young man needed a distraction as much as he did, to get his mind of certain subjects. And Harper did have a point. Not that he would ever fuel his ego by saying it out loud but he really was a wonder with machines and such. Harper probably could be a valuable asset on this mission, provided he could keep from getting himself killed. With that thought, Dylan made up his mind.

“All right, you can stay,” Dylan caved. Harper opened his mouth to celebrate, but Dylan cut him off. “But this is not a pleasure trip. Even I don’t know what we’re walking into here, and I’d like to be alive to walk out of it when we’re done. I appreciate your offer to help and I’m sure it will be needed but remember, I’m in charge here. This is no time for your rather loose interpretation of orders, understand?”

Harper nodded, but he couldn’t wipe the grin of success off his face. “Thanks, Boss! I knew you’d be glad I came. I mean, how could you resist the Harper charm?”

“Very easily,” Dylan muttered dryly but without malice. 

“So, what do we do first, oh wise and mighty leader?”

“First, we get some sleep. I’m not starting this adventure until I’ve had a few hours of shut-eye. I think you took ten years off my life when you scared me just now, and I’m feeling a little worn out. And I happened to know you haven’t slept in over forty-eight hours, Rommie told me. So we’re going to bed.” As he spoke he took the young man by the arm and forcibly steered him away from the Sparky and the flexi and toward the crew quarters and his bunk.

“Aw, Boss, you’ve been having me watched?” Harper whined grumpily.

“Not me, Beka. Now get in that bunk or I will turn around and take you back and you can speak with Beka yourself. I’m sure she’d probably be really glad to see you about now,” Dylan added pointedly.

Harper sighed, but it was mostly for show. He really was exhausted and, now that he’d won his fight, he didn’t mind taking a little break. “Do I at least get to take my boots off?” he asked the captain, purposefully increasing the whine in his voice.

Dylan threw up his hands in frustration and rolled his eyes. “Mr. Harper, just go to bed! I don’t care about the specifics!” he said and turned around to make his own preparations. Behind his back he heard a muttered “Touchy” and smiled a little. He quickly turned out the light and settled into one of the lower bunks. A few moments later he heard Harper pull himself up into his own bunk and everything was quiet… for a bit.

“Night, Boss.”

“Goodnight, Harper.”

Silence, blessed silence.

……  
……  
……

“Dylan?”

“What, Harper?”

“Could you try really hard not to snore? Last time, when we went after that vase, you kept me up all night.”

With a moan, Dylan covered his face with the pillow. This was going to be a REALLY long two weeks.


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

_God help the sheep when the wolf is judge._

\- Danish Proverb

*****

_Thirteen days later…_

“Harper get this ship going now!” Dylan shouted from just outside the airlock as another blast narrowly missed giving him a free membership in the ‘bald but beautiful’ club.

Harper’s boots pounded on the deck plating as he raced for the pilot’s chair, ignoring the burning in his left leg. “Already on it, Boss!” he yelled back over his shoulder. He literally jumped into the chair and slammed the Maru’s controls all the way to full power, completely skipping the warm-up. It was murder on the engines and Beka was gonna kill him, but he’d take impending death from Beka in the future over certain death from nasty, evil, bad guys with big guns any day.

Dylan heard the engines scream and fired off a few more shots to clear their path. Then he leapt back into the ship and slammed the airlock closed. “Thank you, Mr. Harper,” he muttered as he leaned heavily against the wall, trying to catch his breath. 

Harper didn’t slow the ship down until he was at least two slip-points away and sure they were alone. Then he carefully eased the _Maru_ to a complete stop and sank back into the chair, exhausted and in pain. He didn’t even turn around as he heard Dylan enter the cockpit. 

“Whew. That was a close one, wasn’t it, Boss?”

“Too close. I don’t think they liked us very well, Harper.”

“Hey, speak for yourself, Dylan. I don’t think the local population had any objection to me. I mean, what’s not to like?”

“Speaking of local population, I’m not sure I want to know but what exactly where you doing with that museum receptionist? I told you to _distract_ her, not corrupt her.”

“That wasn’t corruption, it was education! That’s what museums are for: education,” Harper said with a smile as he struggled to his feet and turned to face Dylan. “Besides, I’ve always wanted to try one of those ‘Persian Goodbyes’.” His eyes closed in fond memory and Dylan rolled his own heavenward.

“A Persian what?”

“You know, a ‘Persian Goodbye.’ Like from _Oklahoma_.”

Dylan continued to gaze at him without comprehension. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen _Oklahoma_? You know ‘chicks and ducks and geese better scurry’and all that?” 

“Um…no.”

“But that’s a classic! You poor deprived soul…” Harper shook his head in sad disbelief and limped toward the common room.

Dylan just rolled his eyes and laughed at the strange babbling of his engineer. As Harper limped past him, he reached out and put a steadying hand under his elbow. “Come on, let’s have a look at that leg; that blaster caught you pretty good. You need to learn to run faster,” he teased.

“Yeah, well you didn’t come through unscathed either, Captain Superman,” Harper threw right back with a glance at Dylan’s smoking shoulder. Dylan grimaced. 

“Okay, agreed. Maybe we both need to learn to run faster.”

“And for the record, when I yell ‘look out!’ it means ‘don’t look, duck’.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

*****

Two hours later, Harper was feeling much better. He’d filled up on three cans of Sparky, and the nanobots were working on repairing his leg. In a day or so he’d never even know he’d been shot. Ah, the wonders of modern medicine. To top off his good mood, they’d made it out alive with jewel number five, and the engines were no worse for the harsh treatment he’d subjected them too earlier. Maybe Beka would never even have to know about that little wild ride.

With a smile at that particular thought, Harper carefully wiped off the tool he’d been using to measure the AP tank’s fluid and stored it in his toolbox. He snapped the box closed and carried the whole thing with him to the common room, barely limping at all now. 

Dylan was sitting at the table studying a flexi. “Anything I need to worry about?” he asked as Harper came in.

“Well, I’m down to my last six-pack of Sparky, but other than that, nope. She’s good to go.” 

Dylan nodded and turned his attention back to the flexi while Harper went into the crew quarters to stash the toolbox next to his bunk. Emerging, he noticed the captain still absorbed in his flexi, a frown on his face. 

“Why so glum, Dylan?” he asked as he fixed himself a bowl of soup. “I mean, we’re almost done. Just one more jewel to go and we win the prize for best freakin’ treasure hunters ever. Surely that’s worth a little smile?”

“Well, don’t plan the party yet, Mr. Harper. The last one is usually the hardest, and in my experience, where it all falls apart.”

Harper pulled a stool up to the table and sat down with his soup. “Thanks for the pick-me-up, Dylan,” he muttered sarcastically. “Now I’m so excited.”

Silence descended as Dylan concentrated on his flexi and Harper concentrated on his soup. Finally, Harper couldn’t stand it any longer.

“So, Boss, you ever gonna tell me where we’re going or do I have to watch out the window as ya drive?”

Dylan set the flexi down on the table and finally looked up at the young man sitting across from him. Despite the tongue that was hinged in the middle and notoriously ahead of his brain, Dylan found himself actually enjoying this time with Harper. And Harper with his technical skills and slightly crazy ideas had turned out to be a valuable asset on the trip in his own right. He looked closer at his friend and was pleased to see that the haunted look that had dogged him for the last week or so was a little less visible in those clear blue eyes. Crazy natives and gunfights notwithstanding, this trip had been good for Harper. Now they were about to embark on the toughest phase of the mission and Harper deserved to be leveled with, have a say in the planning.

“I’m just a little worried about this last drift,” Dylan confided. “The sixth jewel was carried off by Nietzscheans when they sacked the Bix Tan’s home world over a hundred years ago. They’ve supposedly got it enshrined in some government building and from the intelligence I’ve been given, the security system on Sommer’s Drift is supposed to be…”

Dylan stopped speaking abruptly as Harper nearly choked on his soup. The engineer’s eyes jerked up to meet his, and Dylan was shocked by the look. He had expected some sarcastic remark about Nietzscheans but not this. Gone was the calm and excitement of moments before. It had been replaced by anger, shock, and something that looked suspiciously like fear. 

“Sommer’s Drift? You have got to be kidding me?” Harper cried, standing quickly and pushing away from the table.

“What’s wrong with Sommer’s Drift?” Dylan asked, confused by Harper’s rapid change in moods.

Harper snorted and threw Dylan a scathing look. “What’s wrong with it? Dylan, that’s a freakin’ Drago-Kazov drift! The whole place is crawling with them!”

“I’m aware of that, Mr. Harper, but I can’t do anything about it. That’s where the last jewel is and our mission is to get it. Just think of them as any other bunch of egocentric, over-confident Nietzscheans,” Dylan offered, trying to calm the young man. 

“Boss, they’re _Drago-Kazov_ ,” Harper emphasized again. 

“I know that, Harper,” Dylan answered calmly.

Harper just stared at Dylan in disbelief as he ran a hand through his wild hair. Dylan just didn’t get it. _Sommer’s Drift_. The name sent chills up and down his spine. Five years in space and he had purposefully managed never to set foot on it. Beka knew why; Beka would have understood, but Beka wasn’t here. Dylan had no idea why this place was at the top of Harper’s taboo list and the engineer wasn’t very keen on sharing his reasons at the moment. Almost without realizing it he started pacing the small room, trying to figure out what to do, what to say. 

Dylan wisely kept silent, waiting for Harper to speak and give him a clue what had upset him so much. Finally, Harper turned and faced him again.

“Do you actually need me on the drift with you? I’m sure I could jack in and hack the security system from here.”

Now Dylan was really confused. He knew Harper hated the Dragans; heck, he knew Harper had good reason to hate the Dragans, but to voluntarily offer to stay behind? That was so un-Harper like that all of Dylan’s inner alarms started going off. He had the sneaky suspicion there was more going on here than Harper was telling him.

“Is there something I should know about this drift, Harper?”

“No! I just…um…don’t like sharing oxygen with Dragans is all!” Harper responded a little too quickly.

He couldn’t make the young man talk, so he simply told him the truth. “I’m not going to force you to come with me, Harper. I was supposed to do this alone anyway and I still can if I need to, but I won’t lie to you. I could really use your help down there, and what’s more the Bix Tan could really use your help. If we get this last jewel and present them with all six, we can end decades of war and give them a better life in the Commonwealth.”

Harper started pacing again, his thoughts in turmoil. He knew there was no way Dylan could get through that security system on his own, but he also knew there was no way Dylan could be talked out of trying. If he didn’t go down to that drift, he’d have Dylan’s and hundreds of Bix Tanean lives on his hands; if he did go down…. Well, he didn’t really want to think about that either. Abruptly, he stopped pacing. He knew what he had to do. Dylan might be annoying and over-optimistic at times, but he was still his friend. He knew he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if Dylan went down there and got himself killed, not when he might be able to help him. 

“All right,” he said quietly. “I’ll go. But I want it noted official that I think this is a very bad plan.”

“Noted and logged,” Dylan replied with a small smile as he stood up and placed a friendly hand on Harper’s shoulder. “Now, I’ll go pilot for the last stretch. We should be there in roughly two hours. In the meantime, why don’t you get some rest and give that leg time to heal.”

Harper just nodded resignedly and watched Dylan leave. After a few moments he went to engineering and opened up one of the panels. He inserted the fat end of his wire lead into his dataport and plugged the other end into the console. Extremely subdued, he proceeded to hack into the communications and sent a rogue message. Dylan would never know and it was coded so only Rommie could pick it up and make sense of it. It contained only three very short sentences.

_Beka, we’re going to Sommer’s Drift. I just thought you should know. Thanks for everything; I love you. –Harper_


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

_When you see the storm is comin’_  
See the lightning part the skies  
It’s too late to run  
There’s terror in your eyes 

\- Marsha Norman, _The Secret Garden Musical_

*****

“Dylan, this plan is freakin’ crazy!” Harper hissed out of the side of his mouth as the two crawled through the air duct, trying not to clank their boots on the metal plating. Harper’s sore leg protested slightly at the forced method of movement, but he studiously ignored it.

“Do you have a better one?” Dylan whispered.

“Yes,” Harper shot back. “We turn around right now, I put the first security system back up before they notice my hack, and we get our tails back to the _Maru_ and skedaddle.”

“Mr. Harper, you know I can’t do that,” Dylan sighed.

Harper sighed as well. Of course he knew that. He was just trying to keep his rising panic under control by the one method he knew best: talking. His heart was pounding out an erratic rhythm inside his chest and all the Earth instincts he’d fought so hard to smother were screaming ‘flight.’ He was terrified, and it was taking all his willpower not to just turn and run and leave Dylan on his own. Shaking his head to clear it, he glanced down at his wrist device to check where they were.

“Boss, the next grate is the one we want,” he whispered again, now just wanting to get this over and done with as quickly as possible.

Dylan crawled over the grate mentioned and stopped on the other side. As Harper came up to it, Dylan reached down to lift the piece of metal up and out of the air duct.

“Wait!” Harper hissed, his voice louder than it should have been in his urgency. “Don’t pull on it yet, Boss! I’ve got to check it for traps.”

“You’ve already disabled the security system to get us in here; do you really think they’ve gone to the trouble of booby-trapping each individual grate?” Dylan asked, eyeing his engineer skeptically.

“Boss,” Harper whispered back as he took out several tools to scan the grate with, “I’ve been hacking Drago-Jerkoff systems all my life. Believe me, that is exactly what they would do.”

As if on cue, Harper’s tool let off a little beep and started flashing. “See, what’d I tell ya: traps.”

“These Dragans really need to develop some new hobbies,” Dylan muttered as he watched his engineer prepare to jack in.

“Tell me about it,” Harper grumbled and brought the jack up to his dataport. “Well, see ya in a few.” He grimaced as he pushed the lead in and Dylan leaned forward and caught him as his eyes rolled back and his body went limp.

With nothing else to do, Dylan studied his friend carefully. He wasn’t often around when Harper completely jacked in and he forgot how vulnerable and exposed it left him. In the dim light, Harper looked incredibly young and very pale. Dylan frowned. He knew his engineer was unnaturally uptight about being on this particular drift, but he still hadn’t been able to figure out why. It was no secret that the kid hated the Dragans, and with good reason, but it had to be more than just that. Once again, he was reminded of how little he really knew of his friend’s past. Almost all the background he knew about the boy he had learned either second-hand or from random, bitter comments Harper occasionally dropped. Dylan didn’t say it as often as he should, but he really did consider the young man a friend, and friends were supposed to talk to each other, share things. He could literally count on one hand the number of times he and Harper had sat down and just talked. If he had been a little bit less preoccupied with saving the universe and a little bit more concerned about the really important things, he might not be wondering why Harper was so worried right now. 

As Harper started to stir beside him again, Dylan made himself a promise to begin rectifying that problem. As soon as he and Harper were back safely on the _Andromeda_ , he was going to see if Harper was interested in a nice, friendly chat, maybe over a few beers or something.

“All right, _now_ you can open the grate,” Harper whispered as he sat up and stashed his lead back in his pocket.

Making as little noise as possible, Dylan lifted the heavy metal plate out and set it aside. “Here we go,” he muttered and quickly dropped through the hole, Harper right behind him. For a moment they both just gazed around, trying to get their bearings.

They were in a sort of indoor courtyard, complete with benches and live plants. From the sound of trickling water that echoed faintly through the air, it appeared that a waterfall had even been stashed in a corner somewhere. It might have been relaxing and pleasant, if you could forget for a moment that the people who built it would probably find a nice round of torturing just as relaxing and pleasant. 

It being the drift’s equivalent of night, the whole room was steeped in shadow, making it hard to judge the exact location or size of anything. All around the edges of the courtyard, doorways gapped, their dark openings whispering of mystery and terror at the same time. They almost appeared to be mocking them, daring them to enter and see what fate had in store. 

Shaking his head, Dylan forced thoughts of monsters and spiders and headhunters out of his mind. He really, really needed to stop dipping into Beka’s secret stash of holo-novels. Concentration, that’s what was needed. He already had a slightly panicked Harper with him, it wouldn’t do to start letting his own imagination run away. Besides, at any moment, they could find themselves face to gun with a bunch of angry Drago-Kazov, and that would be worse than anything his imagination could dredge up – something, he realized with a sickening flash of insight, Harper could probably attest to first hand.

“Which doorway do we take, Boss?” Harper asked quietly from beside him, the eeriness of the place getting to him as well.

His words pulled Dylan back on track, and he glanced around with purpose. There it was – second door from the corner along the right wall. The intelligence he’d been provided with stated that through that doorway lay a hall which led to several of the drift’s more important government offices, including the local big-wig’s treasury, or grand stash.

“This way,” he whispered and started toward the correct opening. Behind him, Harper moved carefully, checking constantly for any hidden traps or alarms. As they got closer, Dylan could see that the molding around the door contained several strange symbols, icons he’d never seen before, and he turned to ask Harper if he had a clue what they meant. His engineer noticed them at about the same time and suddenly he stopped short, a strange mix of anger, fear, and shame flashing across his face.

“Um, Boss, we have a slight problem,” Harper spoke, but it looked like each word was being forced out reluctantly.

“Yes?”

“I…um…I can’t go in there.”

“Of course you can go in there. We’ve come this far, we can make it the rest of the way. Just a little farther and then we can follow your own plan and as you suggested, ‘skedaddle’,” Dylan reassured him, fighting the urge to remind him that they were sort of on a tight schedule and really didn’t have time for debates in dark courtyards.

“No, Dylan, that’s not what I meant,” Harper tried again, his voice even quieter. “I said _I can’t_ go in there. It has nothing to do with not wanting to.”

Now Dylan was really confused and it showed on his face, even in the near darkness. “We don’t have time for riddles, Mr. Harper. What _do_ you mean then?”

Harper seemed to be fighting some inner battle for a few seconds before he sighed and stepped forward, pointing to several of the strange symbols surrounding the door. “These symbols are really like abbreviated signs. Warnings, if you will, or notices. Basically, it means no Kludges or slaves allowed.”

Harper’s words brought Dylan’s thoughts sharply back to places he didn’t like to dwell in and he started shaking his head even before his friend finished speaking.

“Harper, listen to me. You’re not a Kludge and you’re not a slave. You have every right to walk through that doorway,” Dylan said forcefully, but then amended, “Well, other than the fact that we broke in illegally and are here to steal something, of course. But that’s beside the point. I’ve never known you to worry about breaking a few Nietzschean rules, why start now?”

His words didn’t even seem to penetrate, and he watched as Harper ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “Dylan, you just don’t get it. It has nothing to do with _rights_! I’m a Kludge; that’s what marking Earth as your hometown means. I was born a Kludge, and in that respect, I’ll always be a Kludge. And, as I’m sure you’ve worked out by now, I was also a slave. The Dragans aren’t just gonna put these little pictures up here and hope all their pets will play nice and stay out! No, they’re gonna make darn sure they have no choice.” 

Harper stopped for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts, and then looked the captain straight in the eye. “Dylan, do you have any idea the amount of crap that’s been pumped into me over the years? Did you think my immune system just destroyed itself? From the time I was old enough to walk, I’ve had so much junk injected into me from one Uber or another that I’ve lost track, and that’s just counting what I was conscious for. I have no idea what’s still floating around in here. Even if most of the normal Earth goodies are gone, chances are some of the wonderful slave treats are still present and accounted for.” Gesturing harshly, Harper got to the point. “If I walk through that doorway, enough alarms are gonna go off to make this place sound like a circus drift. Now, being the super-genius that I am and having the previous experience that I’ve got, I _could_ disable the alarms, but only if you’re willing to sit around and wait for the next five or six hours. And trust me, that’s exactly how long it would take. I know.”

By the time Harper was finished with his whispered torrent of words, Dylan was more than a little bit stunned. In the last minute he’d almost learned more about Harper and the state of this messed up universe than he had in all of the last three years combined, and none of it was pleasant. That aside, however, this information also seriously messed up his plans. Dylan could manage a decent hack on a security system when needed, but nothing along the lines of what his young engineer could pull off. And the lock on the treasury door was dead certain to be the toughest job yet. As much as he wanted to digest all the information Harper had just spilled out and maybe take the time to offer some pathetic condolences, the number one priority at the moment was to complete the mission and get out, preferably alive and in one piece.

“So, what do we do?” Dylan asked.

“You’ll have to go on alone. I’m sure I can jack in from here, cut the security, and get the door open for you,” Harper muttered. He didn’t relish the idea of entering the Nietzscheans’ mainframe again. Three times was really pushing his luck, but he didn’t know what else to do. 

“I can’t leave you out here in the courtyard alone,” Dylan protested, remembering exactly how vulnerable Harper was when jacked in. He would have absolutely no way to defend himself if things suddenly went south. Or make that went south more than they already had.

“I don’t exactly like the idea myself,” Harper shot back, “but thanks to our friendly neighborhood Dragans, we don’t really have a lot of choice.”

Dylan opened his mouth to protest again but he never got the chance. The lights suddenly flashed on, so bright after the dim they’d grown accustomed to they were blinding, and the sound of stomping feet was heard. 

“Oh crap,” Harper yelped, “they’ve detected my hack!”

“I thought you said it was undetectable!” Dylan growled, pulling Harper with him in a desperate search for some cover, any cover.

“I said I _thought_ it was undetectable! I told you from the beginning this was a very tricky system!”

In the end, cover wouldn’t have helped anyway. Before they could do more than move in the general direction of the air duct, they were surrounded by what looked like a whole Nietzschean security detail. They were outnumbered at least twenty to one. Reluctantly, both raised their hands in the air as their weapons were taken from them.

“Howdy, boys,” Harper squeaked, trying to hide his fear behind quick words as always even though he knew that usually got him into more trouble. “We were just…uh…looking for the…restrooms and we got a little lost. Maybe you could help us?”

One of the guards stepped forward and without a word backhanded Harper hard across the face. He staggered and would have been knocked off his feet if Dylan hadn’t caught him. 

“Hey,” Dylan complained as a little trickle of blood started to seep from the corner of Harper’s mouth, “That’s no way to treat your tourists! You know, this could give you a very bad rep in all the drift guides.” 

No sooner had the words left his mouth than Dylan was sporting his own split lip, just like Harper’s.

“Jeeze,” Harper muttered, messaging his face, “These guys have no sense of humor.”

The apparent leader of the squad stepped forward and glared at the pair. “Enough with the Kludge comedy act. I am not a fool and you are most certainly not tourists.”

Harper snorted under his breath at the last comment and muttered, “You could have fooled me…”

Like a cat pouncing, the Nietzschean advanced on Harper and grabbed him around the throat with one hand. He was huge and Harper looked absolutely fragile in his grasp. Panicked, he started gasping for air as his feet left the ground.

“Little Kludge, you open your mouth one more time without my permission and I will personally cut out your tongue,” the leader oozed, enjoying Harper’s desperate struggle for breath. He held on for a moment longer before throwing the boy harshly to the ground.

“Look,” Dylan said, trying to divert attention from Harper, “We don’t want any trouble. We’ll just leave now and get out of your way.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Mr. Big-and-Glaring smirked. “You were here for something, and I think certain persons would like to know what that was.”

“You can’t prove that. For all you know we really could be lost,” Dylan tried to reason as Harper picked himself up off the ground. Dylan knew there was nothing he could say that would get them out of trouble, but at least the more he talked the less that trouble would be zeroed in on Harper. Just looking at the boy, Dylan could see he was fighting a rising tide of emotions. Right now really wasn’t the time for them to boil to the surface.

The Nietzschean leaned right into Dylan’s face as he whispered menacingly, “There are ways to prove almost anything, if you are patient enough.”

“Restrain them. We will take them to the ship,” he ordered to his waiting men with a casual gesture. Dylan thought he looked far too pleased with himself as their hands were forced behind them and secured. They were then surrounded and shoved through one of the doorways on the other side of the courtyard. Throughout it all, the captain was desperately racking his brain for a way out of this mess.

“You are really very lucky,” Big-and-Grumpy continued, making conversation as if they were going for a summer walk through the park. “It’s not often the Commander is here in person these days. Due to your excellent timing, you will have the distinct pleasure of meeting Commander Gaius Felix face to face.”

Not really caring who they were going to meet, Dylan said nothing, but beside him he felt Harper stumble. Concerned, he glanced over at his young friend, wondering if his leg was bothering him again. He was prepared to see a look of absolute terror laced with anger on his engineer’s face. After all, Harper knew better than most what Drago-Kazov “pleasures” usually consisted of and what was probably waiting for them at the end of this little walk. He was not, however, prepared for what he did see. Settled grimly beneath that anger and fear in his eyes was acceptance, but a horribly twisted kind of acceptance. The look on Harper’s face was one Dylan had only seen a few times in his life, but was one a person never forgot. It was the look a man wears when he’s willingly sold his soul and the Devil is now there to collect. And somehow, Dylan got the feeling Harper had known the Devil was waiting and there would be no coming back.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

_Done a lot of things that I’m not so proud of_  
Took a lot of turns that turned out wrong  
That’s a worn out song.  
Day by day, moment by moment  
Taking my chances, trustin’ my heart,  
It wasn’t too smart. 

_Lonely and lost as I could be  
The way, it’s up to me._

_Lettin’ go of my bad habits_  
Hangin’ onto hope for a better time  
I’ll be fine.  
Learnin’ to sleep in the bed that I made  
Layin’ the blame where it belongs,  
I’ve gotta be strong. 

_Tear drops no one sees but me  
I won’t stop, I’ll always believe._

_I will survive, I will endure_  
When the going’s rough you can be sure  
I’ll tough it out, I won’t give in  
If I lie down I get up again.  
As long as my dream’s alive  
I will survive. 

\- Stephanie Bentley, Old Earth

*****

Dylan and Harper were dragged onto a large Nietzschean ship and roughly shoved into a medium sized room. After the austere emptiness of the drift and the ship’s corridors, this room was the picture of wealth and comfort. Tapestries and paintings littered the walls, and elegant chairs and couches were arranged around a mantle where a holographic fire crackled with deceptive cheerfulness. There was no one waiting in the room and to their surprise, Dylan and Harper were left alone, if still bound, standing in the center of the wine-red rug. While Harper seemed almost unaware of his surroundings, Dylan wasted no time in gazing around.

“Harper, when the Commander comes in let me do the talking, all right?”

Harper graced Dylan with an unreadable expression before answering. “Whatever you say, Boss.” His voice sounded resigned and Dylan was really starting to get worried. Harper mouthed off to everyone; that was just a given. Even in the face of eminent death, Dylan had never known the boy to stay quiet. For him to willingly agree to keep his mouth shut was just wrong.

Before the captain had time to ponder on that subject more, a side door slid open and three Nietzscheans walked in. As the obvious leader took a seat by the fire, the two guards came up behind Harper and Dylan and abruptly pushed them to their knees in front of him.

Commander Gaius Felix was a typical Nietzschean in that he was large and imposing. He was tall, even taller than Dylan, with a body that screamed health and physical fitness. It was not a surprise that he was adorned in opulent robes that rustled and swished as he moved and several jewels glittered on his well-manicured fingers. The one unusual feature that set Felix apart was the startling shock of curly red hair that topped his head. It looked so innocent and friendly, such an oxymoron on a Nietzschean. Dylan had never seen a Nietzschean with red hair and even in the midst of the current crisis he let his thoughts drift just enough to wonder why.

Felix gazed pompously at the two men forced into submission before him. His eyes flickered quickly over Dylan but they seemed to linger on Harper, and something Dylan couldn’t place but found distinctly disturbing flashed through them. For his own part, Harper appeared pale and almost sick, but he stubbornly refused to look down. Dylan got the unsettling feeling he was missing something important, like he’d walked in on a conversation in the middle, but he honestly didn’t have time to deal with it right now. He was using all his brain cells to try and think of a way to get the two of them out of this predicament.

After only a few seconds, the spell seemed to be broken and Felix turned back to Dylan, smiling like a crocodile. 

“It’s not often my officers feel it important enough to bring Kludges before me,” he said with interest. “Who are you and to what do I owe this great… _pleasure_?”

As much as it rankled, Dylan decided that the best way to play this was submission. He bowed his head slightly before speaking. 

“We’re sorry to disturb you, sir. I’m Harold Brown and this is my cousin Jimmy Cross. We’re simply tourists on your wonderful drift and, in trying to find the movie theater, I believe we became a little turned around.” Lame he knew, but what else could he do short of blurting out ‘hey jerk-face, we’re here to rob you blind?’

“Oh, really? What an unfortunate mix-up. And to think my men dragged you all the way here for that,” he clucked. “Pray tell, which movie were you planning on viewing?”

Dylan’s mouth opened but no sound came out. Almost three years of playing diplomatic charades across the galaxy had not prepared him for a Nietzschean who wanted to make small talk. He had no idea what the current raves in entertainment in the universe were, let alone what might be playing on this sad, backwater drift.

“Well…we…er…hadn’t completely dec…”

“ _The Kalimelon That Ate Kraklow_ ,” a quiet voice beside Dylan spoke.

“What?” Felix questioned, his attention momentarily pulled from the captain and Dylan cursed under his breath. He knew Harper agreeing to stay quiet was just too good to be true.

“ _The Kalimelon That Ate Kraklow_ ,” Harper repeated, staring Felix down. “That’s the movie we were gonna see. Harry here just doesn’t want to admit he likes those B movies; afraid his wife will find out.”

“Ah, well, sounds like quite the thriller,” Felix oozed, leaning back and clasping his hands nonchalantly in his lap. “I’m so sorry you had to miss it due to our little misunderstanding.”

He paused for almost a full minute, and Dylan suddenly felt very nervous. 

“It’s too bad there isn’t a theater on Sommer’s Drift, isn’t it?” he finally finished. Just as quickly as it had come the pleasantness drained from the Commander’s face and he leaned forward, his eyes glinting dangerously at the two of them.

“Do you take me for a fool, Harold Brown? Or should I say Captain Dylan Hunt?” he seethed, rising to his feet and invading Dylan’s personal space. 

Dylan tried to look surprised, but in reality he wasn’t. He’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop any time; three years of trying to save the universe from scum exactly like the specimen breathing in his face didn’t exactly make for easy undercover jobs.

“Did you honestly think I wouldn’t know who you are? The mighty Dylan Hunt, captain of the Andromeda, restorer of the Commonwealth, savior of mankind, and friend to all things small and pitiful.” With the last words he glanced distastefully at Harper. “I see you really do have a talent for attracting the refuse of the universe.”

Harper’s eyes flashed but surprisingly he said nothing.

“Captain Dylan Hunt and his faithful dog Seamus Harper,” Felix repeated, now standing between them and placing his hands on their shoulders. Dylan saw an involuntary shiver run through his young friend at the man’s touch. “Why don’t you tell me why you are really here?” The grip tightened as he spoke the next words. “Because one way or another, I will find out. And it would be so much healthier for you, Captain Hunt, if you told me of your own accord.”

The games were over; the charade was done; Harper would have said the ‘jig was up,’ but that was fine with Dylan. They’d been heading for this path since the moment they’d been caught. At least this kind of diplomacy he was used to. His only regret was that he had to drag his friend through it with him. 

“See, that’s where we have a difference of opinion,” Dylan said with a smile. “I don’t think changing my story now would have one bit of influence on the state of my health. Why, you ask? Because I know how these things work. We’re the good guys so we won’t tell. And you? You’re the bad guy, so you’re gonna beat the crap out of us no matter what we say. Cliché? Yes, I know, but that’s how it works. And speaking of clichés, you bad guys really need to learn some new lines. That whole ‘tell me for your own health’ routine was old centuries ago.”

Dylan was ready for the blow, but the force of it still caused him to lurch to the side, three thin trails of blood popping up on his left cheek where the Commander’s bone-blades had grazed him. The cool, poised appearance of earlier was completely gone now. Instead, Gaius Felix seethed in barely concealed rage.

“I am Gaius Felix out of Helena by Titus Artorius. I will _not_ be made a fool of! You _will_ tell me what I want to know. I guarantee you will regret it if you don’t!”

Stepping away, he gestured harshly to the waiting guards. “Take him to a cell. Let him think on it for a few hours.”

Rough hands grasped his arms, and Dylan was jerked to his feet. The other guard moved to do the same with Harper, but Felix stopped him.

“The little one stays here.”

“What?” Dylan yelled and in protest. “You want answers to questions, you ask me, not my crew!”

All three Nietzscheans ignored him and despite his struggles, Dylan felt himself being pulled from the room. As he neared the doorway, he glanced back over his shoulder at Harper. Kneeling before the towering bully with his hands still bound behind his back, Harper looked pitifully small and helpless. He looked up at Dylan and the captain saw real terror in the boy’s eyes for the first time, along with something else. With a flash of horror, Dylan realized that Harper’s eyes almost seemed to be sending him a silent message of farewell. Before he could say anything in return, he was dragged from the room and into another grey metal corridor. 

Five minutes and more twists and turns than he could count later, his arms were released from their restraints and he was shoved into a dim metal cell no more than twelve by twelve. As the door clanged shut behind him, Dylan couldn’t help but wonder if he’d just unwittingly helped sentence his young engineer to a fate worse than death.

*****

As Dylan was dragged from the room, Harper felt almost uncontrollable fear well up inside of him, but he took several deep breaths and pushed it back down. He consciously hardened his eyes and placed an impudent expression across his face before looking up to squarely meet Commander Felix’s own green orbs. He knew what was coming; there was no reason to pretend he didn’t and fear would get him nowhere.

“Well, Seamus,” Felix practically purred, stepping forward to cup the young man’s face in his hand with mock gentleness. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

_When you feel your heart is poundin’_  
_Fear a devil’s at your door_  
 _There’s no place to hide_  
 _You’re frozen to the floor_  
 _What you do then is you force yourself_  
 _To wake up and you say_  
 _It’s this dream not me_  
 _That’s bound to go away_

\- Marsha Norman, _The Secret Garden Musical_

*****

“Not nearly long enough,” Harper said defiantly, jerking his head away from Gaius Felix’s touch.

Felix growled and his eyes narrowed, but surprisingly, he didn’t strike him.

“I see the years have done nothing to curb your tongue or teach you manners.”

“And I see the years have done nothing to improve your charm,” Harper shot back with a glare.

This time Felix did strike him and with enough force to send the smaller man sprawling on the ground. Before he had a chance to recover, Felix grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him to his knees again, sneering right in his face.

“I did not tolerate your mouth before, slave, and I will not tolerate it now, as you should know. But then, you never were very bright.”

“I was smart enough to escape, wasn’t I, something no one else ever did.”

Harper honestly tried to hold the words back, but they slipped between his clenched teeth, and when Felix pulled him to his knees this time, he came up spitting blood.

“If you’re so intelligent, why are you here bowed before me again, boy?”

Harper said nothing. The truth was he’d been asking himself that same question ever since he’d agreed to come to this infernal drift with Dylan.

“I will tell you why,” Felix continued, throwing Harper to the floor hard enough he was left gasping for air. “Because you are mine. No matter how far you run, you cannot escape that fact. You belong to me – body, mind, and soul. You are my slave.”

The Nietzschean punctuated each sentence with a viscous kick, and Harper tried to shield his body but with his hands tied, there was little he could do. He simply closed his eyes and waited for it to be over. The all-consuming fear had not left him, but it was being quickly shoved aside by anger. Harper encouraged the rage; anger would serve to keep his mind off…other things.

The blows stopped and Harper lay bruised and winded on the floor, but his eyes flashed dangerously.

“I’m not a slave,” he ground out through pain-gritted teeth. “I’m an engineer.”

Hands snaked down and dragged him upward again, this time depositing him on his feet.

“You are _not_ an engineer. You are a worthless little worm! You are nothing more than an animal! You are not fit to lick the boots of your betters! You are a Kludge, a beast, a pest. You. Are. A. Slave!” Felix’s voice hissed wildly and he shook Harper so hard his brain rattled inside his skull.

“You know what happens to slaves that try to run away and get caught?”

Harper gulped in spite of himself and the terror rushed to the front of his mind again. Of course he knew what happened! How many times had he seen it happen before? How many unmarked graves bore witness to that fact on Earth? And how many times had he sworn to himself he would never suffer that fate?

Felix saw the fear that leapt onto Harper’s face and smiled. “Well, answer me, slave!” he demanded, shaking the boy again. “What is to be your fate, now that I’ve caught you again?”

The bravado of a moment ago lost, Harper answered in barely a whisper.

“Death. By crucifixion.”

“Ah yes, quite correct,” Felix purred, once again caressing Harper’s cheek. “Maybe you are intelligent after all.” He stared at Harper for a moment longer, and Harper tried to muster enough false bravado to glare back, but he was having a hard time. Then suddenly, Felix seemed to lose interest and tossed Harper back on the ground in a heap. Striding to the wall, he pushed a comm. button and summoned the guards.

Harper took the opportunity to try and collect his scattered wits and emotions, as well as to drag himself haltingly back to his feet. Terrified he might be, but he had enough pride to meet death upright. It took his legs a while to decide to support his weight but, once the room stopped spinning, he noticed a new doorway had been opened. Felix followed his gaze.

“Don’t worry, you will not be spared your fate, but I hardly plan to pin you up tonight,” he said with an evil laugh. “First we are going to get _reacquainted_ and you are going to tell me exactly why you and the good captain were on my drift.” The Commander sauntered through the new doorway and two guards Harper hadn’t noticed before took hold of his arms and half-dragged, half-carried him through as well.

Harper’s breath caught in his throat as he gazed around the new room. Shackles hung from the ceiling and walls, and an ominous metal table complete with silver restraints occupied one corner. Chairs with straps, wicked looking machines, and trays full of all manner of torture devises were scattered around, as casually placed as patio furniture. With the sight of the room and its equipment, all the carefully constructed locks in Harper’s brain sprung open and a whole plethora of nauseating memories assaulted him from all sides with the force of a hurricane.

Felix had been studying Harper’s face intently, and he nodded with contentment at what he saw. “Do you like it?” he smiled, “I’m sure you recognize the main themes; I had it specially built. It makes this ship feel more like a little home away from home.”

In the face of the indescribable pain and misery he knew was coming, Harper fell back on the only thing he had ever been able to rely on, his own sardonic wit.

“Personally, I think you need to find a new designer. The machines shout ‘Frankenstein’ just a little too much, although the chains are a nice touch.”

Gaius Felix threw back his head and laughed – a cold sound the echoed off the steel walls and sent shivers up Harper’s spine. The Commander then moved to a plush armchair and settled in, still chuckling.

“I’m glad you approve of the chains since you’re going to be spending a lot of time in them while you spill your pathetic Kludge guts to me. Although, I do so hope you won’t crack too soon; I find myself looking forward to the entertainment.”

Harper narrowed his eyes. “Do your worst, I ain’t telling you nothin’. I’m just gonna die in the end anyway, the least I can do is make it count.”

“We shall see,” Felix said brightly. He then spoke to the guards. “Remove his disgusting excuse for a shirt and chain him in the center of the room.”

Expecting his shirt to be sliced off in pieces, Harper was mildly surprised when his hands were released and the garment simply pulled roughly off over his head and set aside. As he was manhandled into the middle of the room and his arms pulled up and fasted into the waiting shackles, he observed Felix ringing a small bell. A female slave appeared instantly, waiting respectfully a few steps away with her head bowed.

“Bring me some iced-tea. I find the excitement has left me rather thirsty.”

The slave bowed and quickly scurried off. Within minutes she was back with a glass and a pitcher of the golden liquid on a tray. Felix took a long drink and heaved an appreciative sigh before moving thoughtfully toward the nearest cache of deadly tools. He casually picked up two items and brought them to Harper.

“I marked you once as mine but it doesn’t seem to have made an impression.” Felix thoughtfully caressed the metal rod. Harper shuddered at what graced its end.

“Heat this up,” Felix ordered one of the waiting guards, thrusting the rod at him. “In the meantime,” he smiled at Harper, “we can proceed in the good old-fashioned way.” He cracked the silver-tipped whip for effect before circling Harper to stand behind him. “What do you say after twenty lashes I stop for another drink and see if you are ready to chat?”

This room was a place of terror and the stuff of nightmares, but unfortunately for Harper, it was all too familiar. He clenched his teeth in preparation and closed his eyes, just as he had way too many times in the past. As the first tearing stroke melted into five, and then six, Harper shut it all out and let his mind flee to a place it hadn’t been for a long time.


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

_Real friends are those who, when you’ve made a fool of yourself, don’t feel you’ve done a permanent job._

\- Old Earth Saying

*****

Dylan Hunt paced the small cell, pent up energy needing a release the tiny room couldn’t offer. He had no idea how long it had been since he’d been dragged away from Harper and thrown in here, but it had to have been several hours at least. Long enough for the kid to be in real trouble, and Dylan was cursing himself. He got Harper into this mess; it should have been him out there facing the wrath of the Dragans, not his friend.

Again, he walked the perimeter of the cell. As cells go, it was one of the better ones he’d been in. There was no dirt, no musty straw, no leaky roof, but it was also as escape-proof as a solid concrete box. With a wry smile, he realized there was something rather disturbing about the fact that he could compare the quality of cells he’d spent personal time in.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of harsh footsteps approaching, and Dylan positioned himself to have a clear view of the corridor beyond when the door opened. He doubted there would be a chance to escape but it never hurt to be ready. He figured the guards were here to escort him back to Felix. The man had said he’d summon Dylan again after a few hours, and the captain intended to demand to know what he’d done with Harper. 

Abruptly, the door swung open, but the guards didn’t march in and seize him. In fact, they never even glanced at him. Instead, a short figure was tossed roughly into the cell and the door was sealed shut again.

The body on the floor moaned and Dylan rushed to his side.

“Harper?” he asked, “Harper, can you hear me?”

Harper stirred slightly and Dylan noticed with anger that the boy was now in chains. Shackles bound his wrists and ankles, allowing enough room for a shuffling walk or small movements, but not much else. He also saw that his feet were bare, his boots and socks gone.

“Yeah, Boss, I can hear ya,” Harper said. His voice sounded tired and he moved slowly, as if in great pain. With much effort, he tried to sit up and, even in the dim light, Dylan caught a glimpse of the bruises and cuts decorating his face. He also noted with alarm places where dark, wet stains were seeping through his green, long-sleeved T-shirt.

“Harper, take it easy. Here, let me help you,” he ordered, placing a gentle hand on Harper’s back to steady him.

“Don’t touch me!” Harper hissed and Dylan was startled by the venom in his young friend’s voice. He quickly withdrew his hand but wasn’t willing to concede the point yet.

“You’re hurt and bleeding. Let me check you out, look at those wounds.”

“I said, don’t touch!” Harper practically yelled and to the captain’s surprise, his eyes flashed dangerously. Dylan held his hands up in surrender.

“All right, I won’t touch you.”

There was silence for several minutes while Harper struggled to a sitting position and Dylan watched in concern and anger, feeling very helpless. That Dragan scum had apparently done quite a number on the small engineer. Dylan wished Harper would let him help; he was worried the boy was attempting to hide serious injuries.

Harper finally managed to scoot himself to a wall, and he leaned back wearily against it, his chains rattling. Dylan didn’t miss the grimace of extra pain that act caused him, but he was afraid to say anything. The young man then tilted his head back to rest on the metal and closed his eyes.

“I’m sorry I freaked out on you, Boss,” Harper spoke after a little while, not opening his eyes.

“It’s all right,” Dylan hurried to assure him, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of his friend. The bad lighting made it difficult to assess Harper’s condition, even from that close.

“Harper, what happened?” the captain asked hesitantly.

Harper answered without opening his eyes. “Just a typical conversation with Ubers.”

“Why you and not me? I’m the captain. I’m the one whose orders got you into this mess.”

“Age old tactic of pick on the little guy; see if the runt will crack. And you didn’t get me into this, I stowed away, remember?”

Dylan got the distinct impression there was much more going on than Harper said, but he didn’t press it.

“Don’t worry,” Harper spoke again quietly when the captain didn’t respond, “I didn’t squeal.”

“I never assumed you did,” Dylan said gently. Then his worry got the better of him and he slid closer to the boy.

“Harper, what did they do to you? Why won’t you let me check you out? You could be seriously hurt!”

“It’s really okay. They didn’t do nothing that hasn’t been done to me before.”

His words made Dylan angry and disgusted at the same time, and he threw out his trump card. “I can make it an order.”

Inwardly, Harper sighed and he raised his head, finally opening his eyes to look at Dylan. Pain was coursing through his body like a river of fire, but it wasn’t so powerful he couldn’t fight it down and remain in control. As torture sessions went, what he’d just been through could have been a lot worse. Scratch that, _was freakin’ gonna_ get a lot worse. He was determined to enjoy this brief respite as much as he could. Soon enough the guards would come for him again and he had no way of knowing if that trip would end in more whips and branding-irons and electrical shocks, or if it would be the trip that would take him to huge iron spikes being pounded through his hands. For all he knew, this could be his last chance to talk to his friend, and he really didn’t want to spend it cataloguing his wounds and discussing Nietzschean torture tactics.

“Dylan,” he said, his voice laced with pain despite his efforts, “I’m sitting here in chains and we’re both locked in a mad Uber’s cell. You’re not in any position to be giving me orders, _Captain_ , and I ain’t in the mood to be taking them. Even if you did check me out, what are you gonna do? This isn’t the _Andromeda_. There’s nothing here to magically fix me up with. And sooner or later they’re just gonna come back for me again and do it all over anyway. Trust me, as someone who’s been here before, I’ll live.”

He almost smiled at his own gallows humor and choice of words. In reality, he wouldn’t live. It was just a matter of time…but Dylan didn’t need to know that. Harper knew that part of the torture of such a cruel form of death lay in the waiting; the vivid images the mind conjured up as the hours and days of uncertainty stretched on. He couldn’t escape the event, but Harper was determined not to give Gaius Felix the satisfaction of seeing it drive him mad with anticipation.

“Fine,” Dylan conceded. He could see Harper’s point even if he didn’t agree. He seemed to sense something of the engineer’s mood even if he didn’t fully understand the reasoning behind it. He moved over to sit against the wall beside his friend but purposefully kept a few inches of space between them.

They were silent for a long while, but this time it wasn’t awkward, just the silence of two friends stuck in an impossible situation and finding what comfort they could in each other’s company. Harper’s eyes drifted shut again, but Dylan knew he wasn’t asleep. His face was too stiff with the effort to hide his pain. Eventually, Dylan broke the stillness, trying to distract him. 

“Commander Felix seemed to know you. Why’s that?”

Again, Harper answered without opening his eyes but this time it took him a minute.

“I’m from Earth, Boss. The Dragans have enslaved Earth, remember? I wasn’t exactly the nicest guy down there, and I didn’t exactly keep my feelings for the Dragans to myself. Meant I attracted more Uber attention than was healthy. Rewards, wanted signs – those types of things. Our own Mr. Felix-the-Cat here is Drago-Kazov and probably from Earth. You do the math.”

Harper’s words had their usual flippancy, but his tone warned Dylan not to inquire further on that subject.

Noting the mood darkening again, Harper felt the need to lighten it. It was, after all, quite possibly his last hour. Despair, pain, and torment were waiting just around the corner, no need to invite them in. Raising his head, he turned to Dylan and flashed one of his famous grins.

“So, Boss,” he quipped holding up his bound hands, “Ya like my new accessories? They came with the new place we’ve got, free of charge!”

Dylan knew what Harper was doing. In situations like this you had two options: laugh or cry. His engineer chose to laugh and pulled it off with an agility that spoke of years of hard practice. That fact itself tore at Dylan’s heart, but he swallowed it and returned the smile. Unfortunately, he too had practice in laughing through the pain.

“I don’t know,” he played along, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “You should have requested green, to match your shirt.”

“Dang, you’re right,” Harper laughed. “I’ll have to see if I can return them.”

“Ah, Mr. Harper, this place strikes me as the no-returns kind of joint.”

“True, so true. We’ll have to slip something into the suggestion box then.”

Dylan just laughed.

“So, Mr. Harper, I have just one question.”

Harper raised his swollen eyebrows quizzically.

“ _The Kalimelon That Ate Kraklow_? That’s the best you could come up with?”

“Hey, it’s a good show! Monsters, mayhem, great specially effects… _Plus_ it’s got Aneti Lipley in it. Man, is she one hot babe…”

“I’ll take your word on that,” Dylan grinned, glad to see some of Harper’s personality pushing through the pain.

“You know, Boss, you really need to loosen up more. All work and no play makes for high blood pressure, not to mention stuffy, uptight captains. Promise me, when you get out of here, you’ll kick back with a good action flick and a few beers. Maybe you should invite Tyr. If there are enough things blowing up, he might even enjoy it.”

Sensing there was real feeling beneath Harper’s teasing, Dylan nodded. “I promise. We’ll do it together, guy’s night out.”

“Sure,” Harper muttered, his smile draining away.

Just then a deep rumble from within the bowels of the ship filled the cell.

“What’s that?” Dylan asked looking around.

Harper didn’t even bother lifting his head as he answered. “The sublight engines firing up. From the sound of it, their proton converter’s on the fritz.”

“So, I take it we’re leaving the drift?” Dylan asked for the sake of conversation even as he spared a thought to marvel at the young man sitting next to him. Locked who knows how many decks away from the engine rooms and in serious pain, he could still tell what the problem was just by listening. Ah, Harper, ever the engineer.

“Sounds like it,” Harper muttered. “Which is really in the ‘not-so-good-for-us’ category.” 

He closed his eyes again. His back and chest were aflame with pain and it was getting harder and harder to ignore. He was also aware of the minutes ticking by and knew he couldn’t have much more time here before the brute squad came back. In fact, he was surprised he’d been brought here at all. He’d fully expected to be left dangling half-conscious by his wrists from the ceiling of that terrible room.

“Ug!” he cringed as he shifted slightly, instantly regretting it. “I could really use a Sparky…”

“Sorry,” Dylan said, concern seeping into his voice again at Harper’s obvious discomfort. “Next time room service comes by, I’ll request a crate.”

Mention of their friendly neighborhood Ubers brought Harper’s thoughts home. He decided it was time to say a few things.

“Ah, Dylan, speaking of room service…those goons will be back for me soon. If I don’t see you again, I just wanted you to know it’s been one heck of a trip ‘round the universe. I might have thought you were certifiably crazy half the time and out of your mind the rest, but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

“Harper, don’t talk like that. We’re gonna get out of here, _both_ of us!” Dylan said forcefully. 

“Dylan, just shut up and listen for once, okay? Make sure and keep Beka out of trouble, and give Trance a hug for me. And you’d better find Rommie the best darn engineer you can, given that she’s used to having a super-genius look after her.”

Dylan opened his mouth to protest again but he never got the chance. The door of their cell burst open and three huge Nietzscheans stalked in. Two of them kept their weapons trained on Dylan while the third grabbed the chain connecting Harper’s wrists and jerked him to his feet.

“Hey!” Dylan shouted angrily as Harper was dragged from the cell. “Leave my crew alone! Felix wants to _talk_ , let him talk to me!”

But his cries fell on deaf ears and the door slammed shut again, leaving him alone in the cell and Harper on the other side being pulled back to that room.


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

_20: Are not my days few? Cease then, and let me alone, that I may take comfort a little,_

_21: Before I go whence I shall not return, even to the land of darkness and the shadow of death;_

_22: A land of darkness, as darkness itself; and of the shadow of death, without any order, and where the light is as darkness._

\- Job 10: 20-22

*****

“I ask you again, Kludge, why was Captain Hunt on my drift?”

Harper said nothing; he simply hung by his wrists from the ceiling and waited for the pain he knew would come. This was his third “interview” with Felix and he’d used up all his smart remarks about half-way through the second. Each time he’d been dragged down to this room, released from his wrist shackles, stripped of his shirt, and strung up from the ceiling. Round two had consisted mostly of a good old-fashioned beating, no whips or branding-irons thankfully. Afterward, he’d been tossed back into the cell with Dylan, barely conscious, and left for a long time. They’d been given a little water, but nothing else, and hunger was now adding to his dizziness. He had, however, in between adamant refusals to let Dylan touch him, managed to catch a few hours sleep. It hadn’t helped much. Harper could feel the beginnings of a fever setting in from the many wounds that were infected. _But_ , he reminded himself, _none of that really matters in the long run, does it_?

“Slave, why do you continue to defy me!”

_Because it’s sooo freakin’ fun_. Harper would have rolled his eyes if they weren’t almost swollen shut.

The pain came right on cue and while he didn’t scream, he couldn’t help the small jerk his body made. The plus side was this session was still whip and branding-iron free. The minus side was they’d moved on to electric cattle prod. Felix seemed to take great pleasure in applying it to the festering wounds on his back and chest. Personally, Harper couldn’t see the fun in it.

“Surely the Captain’s secrets are not worth this anguish?” Felix tried again, taking a sip of his drink. It was lemonade today and he sipped it as though at a Sunday School picnic.

_Yeah, well, whether they are or they’re not, the longer I keep my mouth shut, the longer I avoid a date with those big, nasty nails you keep showing me_.

Silence.

Harper waited for the scheduled pain but this time it didn’t come. Finally, he cracked a puffy eye open and looked at Felix.

“Seamus, Seamus, I see this is getting us nowhere.” 

The Nietzschean stepped up to him and ran a hand through his matted hair. Harper jerked backwards but couldn’t escape his touch. Felix continued to caress his face, ignoring the boy’s efforts to get free.

“You always were the defiant slave. I would have killed you long ago if it hadn’t been for your bright mind. Such a talent for fixing things. It would be a shame not to take advantage of it one last time.”

His hand strayed down Harper’s cheek and onto his neck, resting unsettlingly close to his dataport.

“I see you’ve gotten a new accessory since I saw you last.” His fingers toyed with the metal plug for a minute, and Harper gritted his teeth at the unpleasant sensations it sent through his brain.

Abruptly, the sensations ceased and Felix pulled his hand away, gesturing to his ever present clown squad.

“Move him to the table,” he ordered dismissively, already turning away to peruse his trays of toys.

Oh no. The table did _not_ sound good. Harper decided he most definitely did _not_ want to move to the table. Unfortunately, he wasn’t given a choice in the matter. His arms were released from the shackles keeping him upright and, completely against his will, his knees buckled.

_Traitors_ , he muttered to his uncooperative legs.

The two goons easily manhandled him onto the cold, metal table. He couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped his lips as his back was shoved down onto the hard surface and he was momentarily consumed by pain. Before he could collect his wits, his arms and legs were secured and he was helpless, unable to move. They hadn’t even bothered to remove the ankle shackles he’d worn since the very first session; they’d simply secured the new straps around them.

_Oh well_ , Harper decided. _Hard metal table had to be better than rough wooden cross._

Resigned to his temporary fate, Harper looked up, trying to see what new torture Felix was going to use. To his surprise, the uber carried only a thin wire lead.

“Our engines are in need of a little repair work and it would be a shame not to make use of your skills.”

How stupid could this guy get? Turning Harper loose in the mainframe of his ship…it was like handing him the keys!

Something of his thoughts must have shown because Felix leaned right into his face as he spoke the next words.

“Don’t think I’m providing you with the opportunity to escape. This has been specially set up. There is only one place you can go in there and one action you can take. Try anything else and you’ll receive a shock so strong we might not have to bother with your execution after all.”

Harper couldn’t stay quiet any longer.

“If you went to all the trouble to set that up, why didn’t you just fix the problem yourself?”

“Because I want you to do it. You are my slave and you do what I say. You _will_ learn that!”

Without any further warning, the lead was jammed forcefully into Harper’s dataport and he was painfully pulled from reality into the computer world.

He was instantly surrounded by harsh reds and blacks and it was extremely jarring to his senses. The forced entry left him disoriented and it took him a moment to adjust. Finally, his head seemed to clear and he glanced down at his virtual self. 

“Aw, crap,” he muttered, getting a good look. While his hologram looked just the same as it did when he was inside Rommie’s mainframe, the ubers had given him a nice present. His wrists and ankles were still shackled, only not with metal, but with bits of code. These “virtual chains” would keep him from performing anything but his designated task.

He raised his wrists. “Nice touch!” he yelled sarcastically to no one in particular, figuring he was being watched even if he couldn’t see them. “Well, at least nothing hurts in here,” he mumbled.

With shuffling steps, he started down one of the virtual corridors, noticing how empty the place felt. Apparently, this ship had no AI. He missed the familiar sensation of knowing Rommie was there, watching over him, but this could also work to his advantage. Chains and eavesdroppers notwithstanding, he was after all, Seamus Zelazny Harper, freakin’ genius. There had to be something, even if it was miniscule, he could do in here to make their genetically-engineered lives a little crappier.

But, in the meantime, he had better get working on those engines. He really wouldn’t put it past Felix to just fry him in here. Of course, that might actually be less painful than the alternative, but he guessed he wasn’t in the mood to commit suicide and spending the eternities trapped inside an Uber’s mainframe was not his idea of _eternal rest_.

Five minutes later Harper had drawn one conclusion: working in chains was not fun.

“You know, you aren’t making this any easier!” he called to hidden listeners. A simple job like this would have been a snap if he didn’t have to keep putting one bit of code down just to reach for another because he couldn’t separate his hands far enough to do both at once. And then, if he accidentally brushed something the blasted chains thought he shouldn’t touch, he got the joy of a nasty shock.

True, he was also conscientiously working slower than he usually would for several reasons. One, he was still trying to figure out how to circumvent the Dragans’ restraints and watchfulness, and it was proving difficult. Stalling was certainly necessary. However, he was also reluctant to return to his own body. Everything hurt out there – _everything_ – even his eyelashes. It was nice to have a few pain-free moments. He was noticing that was a rarity in his life lately and, unfortunately, would probably not happen again until he…well… _anyway_. Moving on…

Ten more minutes and he had the unruly proton converter back in shape. True, it could have been in a lot _better_ shape, but apparently Felix’s engineer did shoddy work and Harper felt no burning desire to provide his best services.

_Now what?_ Harper thought to himself, afraid to say it aloud. He was finished and he still hadn’t come up with any brilliant plans. He knew he needed to move back to the entry point or risk getting zappolaed into nothingness, but he didn’t want to leave without doing _something_ to the jerks! There were loose bits of information and files floating all around him - Harper marveled again at the incompetence of the Nietzschean engineer - and if it weren’t for the darn restraint codes, he’d just reach out and snag a few. 

And then it came to him; the inspiration of a true genius. He smiled in spite of himself and shuffled back to the exit point.

“All right Mr. Sadistic Torturer, I’m all done.”

He felt the codes break up, freeing his arms and legs, and the instant before he was pulled back down the tunnel to reality, he reached out and randomly grasp the two nearest files and held on. His grin deepened as he processed them instantly. One was worthless – a list of what to get a finicky mother-in-law for her birthday, but the other, it was _very_ good. His consciousness whooshed back into his head, but the files stayed tucked nicely away in his dataport, safe and sound.

Harper couldn’t help the groan that escaped as his mind returned to his battered body. Oh man, he’d forgotten how _much_ everything hurt.

“Welcome back, Kludge,” Felix was there before he really had a chance to gather his wits, standing over him and blocking the light. As un-gently as before, the wire lead was jerked from his dataport hard enough to cause a few sparks.

“You know, that could have easily been fixed from the outside. What was the point of sending me in there, other than to show off how well you can produce virtual restraints?” Harper ground out through his teeth, still trying to get the renewed pain signals his body was sending him back under control. “There was really no point.”

Felix leaned right over him, trying to intimidate, and as Harper was still strapped to the freakish table, he was quite successful. Harper made a mental note to mark _working_ in that section of the  Torture Techniques Survey when he got it. 

“Oh, but there is _always_ a point, slave. Your sense of self-worth and importance has grown too large in the years you were away from me. I had thought our little chats would remind you of your place, but I forgot how stubborn you are. You fancy yourself an engineer, a mechanic. You’re wrong.”

At these words, he produced another wire lead from somewhere outside of Harper’s line of vision, but this was no ordinary dataport cable. This thing screamed sinister by its very design. Harper barely had time for the fear to well up inside his chest before the plug was crammed into his port. “I hope you enjoyed your walk in the virtual world. It will be your last.”

Felix flipped a switch and suddenly Harper’s whole brain was on fire. Pain danced across sensitive nerve endings so fast his breath was sucked away and he couldn’t even find air to scream. Instead, his mouth opened wide in voiceless agony, but all control of his body was gone. Through it all, he could feel the electricity coursing through his dataport, frying the delicate circuitry and heating the metal up until the skin around it started to burn. The sound of wires popping inside was like thunder within his head. Just when he knew he could stand it no longer, the current was gone. But, the damage had been done. 

Gasping for breath, his fingers clawing at the cold metal beneath him as he fought to regain control, Harper let out a small whimper. 

Felix smiled evilly at his victim before leaning down to whisper sweetly in his ear.

“You’re mine, boy, for as long as I choose to keep you alive. You are _not_ an engineer! You’re a slave! A SLAVE! I wanted you to go into that mainframe for the repairs, even though they could have been done outside, to show you who had the power. I allowed you to make those repairs, and _I_ took that power from you, and you will _never_ be able to use it again! I can take or give you anything. **_I_** control every aspect of your pitiful existence.”

Satisfied that his subject had gotten the picture, Felix backed away. He was so convinced he’d won the round and the words were so quiet, he almost missed them.

“Not a slave. Seamus Zelazny Harper, super-genius.”

It took all the willpower he had left to force those words out through the agony he was feeling, and even then they were more like wisps of air; but it was enough. For once Felix’s controlled aura slipped and he smashed his fist across Harper’s face in anger.

“ENOUGH!”

He was seething, his face contorted in rage.

“I will tolerate this no longer! My guards will prepare the beams now, and you will watch. In half an hour I’ll return and we will finish this! I will show you who is in control!” He leaned close to Harper one more time, his eyes blazing. “And after I have you mounted on wood like the insect you are, I will march your captain in here to show him what happens to slaves who think too much of themselves.”

*****

Terror. Pure terror. This was what it felt like.

Harper thought he’d known fear before, after all he had survived battles, Magog raids, torture, infestation, slavery… He thought he’d stepped into the ring with terror already and come out, if not the winner, at least with a truce. He’d even faced death before, and accepted it. 

He now knew he was wrong.

Pure, unadulterated terror was something unique, and you could only feel it once.

As the straps from the table were released and Harper was pulled to his feet, he was oblivious to all his hurts and pains. His shirt was forced back on, but he hardly noticed. His eyes were fixed instead on the rough wooden post stuck upright in the floor, and the other laying patiently on the ground: waiting. And his mind was far away, thinking of all the things he had never said and should have, and all the people he would never see again.

He offered no resistance as he was dragged to the cross-beam and forced onto his back on the floor. What would be the point? He was outnumbered four to one, and he was half-dead anyway. 

“I’ve been told a healthy man can last up to seven days on the cross. Would you like to bet on your outcome?” Commander Gaius Felix was back in his armchair, observing the sport.

Harper said nothing as his arms were stretched out and tied to the wood. He doubted he could have formed words right now if he wanted to. 

It was when he felt the sharp coldness of steel touching his right palm that he finally started to panic. The fog cleared from his brain and reality set in. This was actually going to happen to him! They were going to pound great metal spikes through his hands and lift him up to hang from them until he was dead!

_No! Wait! Please! I don’t want this to happen! Please!_

The uber holding the nail shifted slightly, giving Harper a view of the hammer raised in his other hand, waiting.

_No! I don’t want to die! Please!_

And then the hammer fell. 

Cold steel pierced warm flesh and Harper was silent no more. The scream that tore from his throat told of unspeakable agony, the like of which he had never felt before. Because this was more than just physical pain, this was the agony of a soul who had finally given up – a soul who had lost more than could be counted.

It was almost a scream without words, but if one listened hard enough and knew what to hear, they could make out one word, a prayer and apology in one, all buried in the pain. One word: Beka.


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

_Regret for the things we did can be tempered by time; it is regret for the things we did not do that is inconsolable._

\- Sydney J. Harris, Strictly Personal

*****

“Have you picked up any kind of a signal yet?”

Rommie refused to allow the very human sigh to escape as she turned to face the pacing blonde captain.

“I am not detecting any signal yet, just as I was not detecting any signal when you asked me the same question exactly twelve point six minutes ago. I’m just as worried as you that they’re two days overdue, but incessant questioning won’t make them appear any sooner.”

Beka stopped her pacing to face the android, scowling. 

“I’ve waited over two weeks to get my hands on that little runt! He thinks he can just run off and worm his way into any adventure he chooses, without asking! Well, I’ll show him who’s boss! When they get back here, I’m gonna make that scrawny little rat wish he’d never been born!”

Rommie gazed thoughtfully at the irate woman before speaking. “You know you don’t actually mean that. You’re actually very worried that something has happened to them and you’re expressing it through anger.”

“What are you, some kind of counselor?” Beka said, the remark hitting a little too close to the truth.

“Well, technically, I am programmed to function as the ship’s counselor in the event it’s needed. But honestly, you’re my friend. I just know you too well.”

Beka softened her harsh stance a little and Rommie walked up and put a hand on her arm. “I’m worried about them, too.”

“Well, despite being worried, I _am_ still mad at Harper for running off like that, and I _am_ still gonna make him pay.”

“You would have done exactly the same thing if you’d thought of it first…” Rommie started and then trailed off as a look flashed across Beka’s face before the blonde could hide it. She smiled.

“That’s it, isn’t it? You’re mad at Harper because he _did_ think of it first, and he didn’t let you in on the scam.”

Beka sputtered in indignation. She didn’t have to put up with this from anyone, let alone a walking, talking bundle of wires.

“No!”

Rommie tilted her head with a piercing stare.

“Okay, maybe. A little! But I’d also like to have my ship back safe and sound where I can see it and know it’s okay.”

“Understandable,” Rommie nodded. “I’ll admit the boys do tend to play a little rough with her and it’s not her fault she’s not a High Guard ship of the line like me-”

She stopped speaking abruptly and Beka leaned forward, noticing the tell-tale signs of an incoming transmission.

“I’m getting a message, only it’s not on the usual frequency,” she sounded puzzled. “It’s from Harper, and it’s over three days old.”

“Well, what does it say?” Beka prodded impatiently.

“It’s addressed to you and it’s text only.”

Rommie keyed in a few commands on one of the consuls and the message appeared on the view screen.

_Beka, we’re going to Sommer’s Drift. I just thought you should know. Thanks for everything; I love you. –Harper_

Rommie eyed the strangely serious message curiously, but Beka paled like a ghost.

“What?” Beka whispered. Harper’s message was like a punch in the gut and all anger fled in its wake only to be replaced by horrifying, gnawing fear and guilt.

“It says they’ve gone to Sommer’s Drift,” Rommie replied, wondering why the captain needed clarification.

“Sommer’s Drift!” Beka cried, totally ignoring the confused android. “Oh, Harper! Of all the stupid things to do!” To think only moments before she’d been planning ways to humiliate the young man as revenge, only to find out he was facing one of his worst fears out of stupid loyalty to a High Guard fossil.

Beka pulled the slipstream controls forward and settled herself in, preparing to open a portal.

“HEY!” Rommie cried, jumping forward and stopping her. “What are you doing? Where are you going?”

“Where do you think I’m going?” Beka snapped. “I’m going to Sommer’s Drift!”

“But that message is three days old, Beka. We don’t even know they’re still there. And Dylan told us to wait here for them. You can’t just ignore his orders like that!”

“To heck with Dylan’s orders! When I see him again he’ll be lucky I don’t crack his skull open for dragging Harper to that drift!”

“Beka, what are you talking about?”

“Rommie, if they went to Sommer’s Drift, then that is the reason they’re late! That’s where we start looking for them, and we hope and pray that they’re still there, because the alternative isn’t pretty.”

Rommie still looked confused and Beka sighed, knowing she needed to explain a bit more but hesitant to do so out of respect for Harper’s trust in her to keep his secrets.

“Let’s just say a little piece of Harper’s past could be waiting for him on that drift: a not-so-nice piece of his past. And if you really want to see your captain and your engineer again, you’ll stop asking me questions and start letting me fly this ship. As it is, it will take us almost a day and a half to get there!”

*****

The sound of a tray scrapping on the floor jerked Dylan awake. He had been dozing lightly against the wall, and it had been so long since he’d heard any sound besides the hum of the ship’s engines that the tiny scrape of metal on the floor was thunderous. He waited hopefully for the door to open but it never did. The cat flap simply fell back down and it was silent again; only him and whatever was on that rusty tray in the room.

With a sigh, Dylan ignored what passed for food in this fine establishment and leaned his head back against the wall, copying Harper’s movements of earlier.

_Harper._

It had been over a day since they’d last taken the boy away. Dylan’s sense of the passage of time was messed up by now, but of that he was sure. Several hours after he’d been taken, Dylan had heard his screams; blood-curdling screams that went right through the captain. Since then, nothing. 

Harper had not been returned to the cell as he had all the other times, forcing Dylan’s brain to go down roads he didn’t want to think about.

But he couldn’t help but think about it. Think about Harper and what the Dragans had done to him and were doing to him. Think about it being all his fault that Harper was even in this mess. And think about the possibility that Harper was dead or dying, and there was nothing he could do about it.

*****

Tired.

He was so tired.

All he wanted to do was rest, rest forever, but he couldn’t. The exhaustion was great, but the pain was greater.

And so was his stubbornness.

Wearily, Harper closed his eyes. He’d long since given up on trying to raise his head. It took too much energy and he had none to spare. He simply let it hang forward, his chin almost touching his chest as he concentrated on taking one breath at a time.

Honestly, he didn’t know why he kept trying.

Harper’s whole world was defined by two things now: pain and his persistent fight against it. And everything hurt more than he thought was humanly possible. His back hissed with agony as it rubbed against the rough wood through his shirt. His arms were stretched out tightly and his shoulders burned with weariness and strain, seriously affecting his breathing. The ropes helping support his weight were digging harshly into his forearms and his feet, finally freed of their shackles, had been lashed tightly to the wooden post with wires, wrapped both around and underneath, making it impossible for him to use them to relieve the strain on his upper body. The wires themselves were working into his sore skin mercilessly, leaving behind deep cuts. 

And then there were his hands. As much as his fuzzy, pain-crazed mind wished to deny it, he couldn’t.

He, Seamus Zelazny Harper, had been crucified. 

He was now dangling from a wooden cross in some sick Uber’s torture room by the big iron spikes that had been pounded through his hands, waiting to die.

Harper ran a dry tongue over cracked lips and tried to focus his hazy mind. The room was in semi-darkness; Felix had left with his cronies what must have been hours ago, muttering something about “the show taking days and wanting to be well rested for the grand finale…” Harper didn’t care why he left; he was just glad to finally be alone.

Not that he wanted to die alone.

He was deeply grateful that Felix had yet to parade Dylan in to see him. Crucifixion was not only one of the most cruel forms of execution, it was also one of the most humiliating, and Harper desperately didn’t want the captain to see him like this. And yet, a small part of him wished he would come, if only so he could see a friendly face one last time.

An extra fiery tongue of pain lashed through him and his body jerked involuntarily, sending off even more flashes of pain like ripples after a stone’s been tossed in a pond. It was so intense it was all he could do to fight the tightness in his chest and keep drawing breath as spots danced before his eyes.

Once again, a little voice inside asked why he bothered. One way or another, now or five pain filled days later, he was going to die mounted up there like a bug in a collection. Why, he asked himself, did he continue to fight when death would actually be such a sweet release?

Finally, he realized the answer wasn’t so much one reason as it was several: Trance, Rommie, Dylan, and Beka. Heck, maybe even Tyr. There was too much he had left undone and unsaid, and even though he knew it was too late now and he would never get the chance to fix that, he owed it to them to go out with a fight.

And so he fought as his body grew weaker and weaker and the minutes dragged on into agony filled hours.


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

_When you come to the end of all the light you know, and it's time to step into the darkness of the unknown, faith is knowing that one of two things shall happen: Either you will be given something solid to stand on or you will be taught to fly._

\- Edward Teller 

*****

Lights flashed on, so bright after the darkness that Harper actually moaned in pain as his eyes teared up. Felix was standing right in front of his pathetic, trapped body before they were adjusted enough to see again.

“Good morning, my little Kludge. I trust you spent the last two days comfortably?” he laughed.

Harper thought of several sarcastic comebacks to that, but he was so exhausted speech was beyond him at the moment.

“And how wonderful to see you’re still _hanging_ in there.”

_Ha ha, big guy, you’re surely the life of the party with jokes like that._

Almost gently, Felix reached out and cupped Harper’s chin in his hand, lifting his battered head up and looking straight into his eyes. Harper tried to pull away, but every move put more tension on his screaming shoulders and hands, so he gave up.

“Hmmm,” Felix muttered thoughtfully, “It won’t be long now, you know. You’ve been beaten and bloodied. You’ve had no food or drink for some time. Your pathetic human body cannot last much longer before it succumbs to the pain, the exhaustion, and the starvation.”

_And you’re just now figuring this out?_ Harper thought snarkily, if a bit slower than usual. _I was under the impression that was the point from the beginning._

Still, Felix seemed unaware of the stupidity of his comments. Abruptly, he let go of Harper’s head and Harper was unable to stop it from falling forward harshly, sending spikes of pain through his arms that left him gasping. 

Felix took a step backwards and began to circle the cross, like a vulture does his prey.

“It’s been a busy few days, hasn’t it?” he continued like he was making small talk and not speaking to the prisoner he had skewered on a wooden frame. He stopped behind the young man and ran a hand up and down the part of Harper’s back that overlapped the wooden beam. “Let’s see,” he said as Harper let out a strangled cry and arched his back involuntarily, “Was it fifty or sixty lashes I put on you. I seem to have lost count.”

Tears leaked down Harper’s cheeks from the agony as Felix stepped in front of him again. This time he reached up and patted his victim on the chest. Harper’s mouth opened in a silent gasp. 

“And then there was the fun as I claimed you again.”

Harper was in danger of blacking out from the pain shooting through his body and the effort to breath on the cross. Vaguely, he wondered if Felix was trying to hurry his death along. Through the shadows clouding his vision, he felt a hand on his neck, fingering his useless dataport and irritating the red and blistered skin around it.

“This part was particularly fun. I had no idea the current would burn the skin as well as fry the circuitry. I must say it was a nice bonus.”

“And then there was your final punishment,” Felix said fondly as he reached out and flicked Harper’s left hand. This time Harper did scream, but his throat was so dry it was hardly more than a whisper.

Felix stepped back again, smiling as his victim squirmed on the cross and gasped for air. “All in all, I would say it has been most enjoyable. Now slave, do you think you could lift your pretty little head enough to smile for me? I’m having a picture taken to preserve this moment for posterity and to send to your silly little friends. I would hate for them to go on not knowing what happened to you.”

Harper could think of several places he wished to tell _Felix_ to go but at the moment he was trying not to die. As for lifting his head up, not a chance. 

“No? Oh well, makes the picture all the better if you are bowed in submission to me.”

_Bowed in submission? I thought I was mounted on a cross?_

The words flickered through Harper’s mind but once again he said nothing, and once again Felix started speaking.

“Did you sleep well last night? I did. Fresh silk sheets after a long, relaxing bath: just what I needed. It has such a way of calming me, especially after the excitement of the day. Focused my thoughts, and you know what, I realized something. I realized I had forgotten something important.”

He strode forward and roughly lifted Harper’s face again, ignoring the pain that flashed across it.

“I’m wondering if you’ve figured it out yet for yourself, boy?” he shouted, his eyes blazing. “Have you figured out yet that you are a slave! A SLAVE! And I’m your master. I have the power of life and death over you and there is nothing you can do about that! 

“Believe me, I’ve figured that part out,” Harper finally mustered enough strength to croak. “You’ve got me pinned to your freakin’ tree waiting to die, what more do you want me to do?” he gasp weakly.

“What more do I want? Hmmm…that’s a very good question. See, last night as I was sipping my nightly glass of wine, I realized I had yet to let you in on a rather large joke. What joke, you ask? Well, I will tell you.” He dropped Harper’s head and stepped backward, gesturing to encompass Harper’s body and the cross he was stuck to. “ _This_ joke,” he grinned madly.

Harper’s brain was way too pain-frazzled to comprehend and the last effort of speaking cost him too much, so he simply hung there, not really caring what the joke was about.

“Slave,” Felix hissed, “your crimes are too great to simply let you die! Did you honestly think I would let you escape so easily for a second time? Death is too kind a punishment for you! I have decided that you will live; and you will live the rest of your life in pain and as my slave, so that others may see what happens to those who chose to defy me!”

Live? Harper was confused. _A little late for that, ain’t it Uber? Big, freaking nails stuck through my hands, remember?_

Felix motioned to his guards to come forward and for the first time, Harper realized they weren’t alone.

“Take him down,” he ordered. “I’ll return shortly.”

“What?” Harper groaned, finally getting sound past his lips. _Take him down?_ None of this was making any sense!

The two guards ignored him as they approached his limp body. Not sure what was going on but afraid it involved more pain for him, he tensed up as they touched his legs and then instantly regretted it as pain shot through his arms and chest, leaving him without air for several seconds. By the time his thoughts cleared again, he realized the wires around his feet were being removed and that it hurt a lot!

“Ahhh!” he moaned, unable to help himself. The wires were pulled away leaving bloody gashes coiling around his ankles, shins, and feet, and he suddenly knew that those wires had been cutting so deeply because they had been helping support him more than he realized. Abruptly, the whole weight of his body hit his arms and the world instantly snapped to black as his chest constricted from the shock and he passed out, unable to breathe.

When he woke, only a minute had passed but everything was different. His arms were still stretched out and attached to the crossbeam, but both he and it were now lying once more on the floor.

It was just too much of a shock for him to absorb what was happening. He hadn’t wanted to die, but he had at last accepted that he was going to and made his peace with the thought. Now, Felix had come along and once again yanked the rug out from under his feet and even that small comfort had been taken from him. Hazy with pain, dehydration, and confusion, Harper barely felt the two Nietzschean guards loosening the ropes that tied his arms. 

But he did feel it when they yanked the first nail out.

If that inch-thick spike had hurt going in, it was nothing compared to how it felt coming back out. Even if the Ubers had wanted to, there is no gentle way to rip a six-inch long nail out of a hand that is sandwiched between it and a block of wood. Prisoners are not meant to be alive when those nails are removed and obligingly, Harper’s body complied. As the nail tore from his hand, he felt his heart-rate sky rocket and his eyes rolled back in his head. The last thing he heard was one of the Ubers shouting for Felix.

*****

The next time Harper awoke it was a surprise. He could tell he had been unconscious for a long time, maybe even hours. Everything hurt more than he ever imagined it could have, but strangely he was alive. He noticed right away that his chains had been returned and he was once again secured to the cold metal table; and just lying secured to that table as opposed to hanging by spikes on a cross felt like heaven.

Amazing how circumstances could change one’s perspective.

He heard movement to his right and tried to turn to see who it was, only to find that a strap had also been placed around his forehead, holding his head tightly in place. He didn’t need to move, however, as Gaius Felix’s menacing form was soon towering over him again, blocking the light.

“Ah, so you are finally awake.”

“Apparently…” Harper muttered, testing his voice out and finding it not quite so weak.

“I must say, it wasn’t very nice of you to die on me like that, and just as I’d decided to grant you your life and all.” Felix noticed the shocked look that passed through the young man’s eyes and smiled.

“Yes, you were dead. I had to call my personal physician just to make sure my new toy didn’t expire before I even got a chance to play with him.” He pointed to an IV that Harper had failed to notice before, running off somewhere into his forearm that he couldn’t see.

“What did you give me?” Harper asked, alarmed.

“Stupid Kludge,” Felix laughed, “I’m not going to poison you after all this! I simply asked the doctor to revive you, give you something to calm your heart rate and relieve the shock, and to give you enough fluids and calories to keep you from repeating your trip to the pearly gates. Apparently, your sorry little body was weaker than even I thought and I over-estimated the time you could spend on the cross. But, all is fixed now. Oh and don’t worry, all your wounds are still as they were before. I made sure the doctor didn’t touch them or give you anything for the pain so you wouldn’t be forgetting our time together anytime soon.”

“How considerate of you. _So_ sorry for inconveniencing you by dying, but I was just crucified,” Harper mumbled, still not used to the idea that he was alive and certainly not sure on whether he liked Plan B any better than he had Plan A. As his senses gradually woke up, he was more and more aware of the building agony, especially in his mutilated hands.

“Back to the sarcastic comments I see,” Felix frowned, leaving Harper’s line of sight as he spoke. Out of habit, Harper strained against the metal strap, trying to see where the Nietzschean was going. “That tells me you are recovered enough for us to continue.”

“Continue? Continue with what?” Harper rasped, wishing he could see what Felix was doing, “Surely even you must have better things to do than torture me all freakin’ day long?”

“Actually, for once you’re correct. I do have things I need to be attending to,” the large man said, walking back to Harper’s side and setting several things down just out of sight. “But there are loose ends I need to tie up here first.”

Harper gulped, sensing he wouldn’t like those loose ends.

“I never intended to kill you, you know. I simply wanted you to think I was going to, in the hopes that it would loosen your tongue and get you to snitch on your mighty captain. Apparently, I underestimated your stubbornness in that area, but no matter. I hardly care why the two of you were so careless as to be caught poking around my drift. I’ve had my fun and you and your captain will never have the chance to finish whatever you were planning, so all is right in the universe. The added mental and physical torment the “execution” put you through was also not unwelcome, a wonderful bonus to my joke.

“I wasn’t joking, however, when I said you are to be my slave. The rest of your miserable life will be spent in the mines of Rellim, as a drudge worker and a painful reminder to those around you of what happens when a slave runs away.”

Felix picked up one of his tools and brought it to the left side of Harper’s head and this time Harper knew exactly what was going to happen. The pain was so mild compared to the rest of his hurts, he simply glared tiredly at Felix as the tag was attached to his ear and he was once again a slave.

“I’ll run away, just like last time. You know that,” he growled with all the anger he could muster. “You know I’m too smart for you; you can’t keep me. And besides, my friends will be looking for me.”

“Your friends think you’re dead,” Felix said simply, “and I am not stupid. I will make sure you can never run away again.”

The Nietzschean reached behind Harper’s head to the top of the table and suddenly Harper became aware that a machine was attached to the edge that hadn’t been there before. Felix pulled it forward and part of it swung around on a hinged arm to rest right on top of Harper’s face. The large man pushed a button and the machine whirred disturbingly to life, clamps leaping out and attaching themselves around Harper’s eyes, forcing the swollen lids open wide and holding them there.

“I hope you looked long and hard around you while on that cross because that is the last you will ever have that luxury.”

True panic and claustrophobia were welling up inside Harper because he suddenly knew what was coming.

“No! Please wait! Don’t do this!” he cried, squirming on the table and fighting in vain against his bonds and the contraption attached to his face, ignoring the agony his motions sent through his body. “Please, anything but this!”

Felix simply laughed, and then he casually reached over and flicked another switch.

Lasers shot out of the machine and buried themselves in Harper’s watering eyes and another ear-shattering scream was ripped from his raw throat. Spikes of pain gouged straight through his eyeballs and into his brain. This pain was worse than being whipped, worse than when his dataport was fried, worse even than having nails driven through his hands and being mounted on a cross. This was pain that connected straight to Harper’s brain and his sensitive nerves and pain receptors went into overload as the world around him abruptly faded to black. 

He should have passed out; he wanted to pass out! In the last four or five days he had been tortured, beaten, branded, enslaved, and crucified. By all rights, he should have been unconscious long ago, but apparently Felix had taken measures to make sure he couldn’t escape to blessed oblivion this time. However he did it, whatever he gave him, Harper remained awake and in more agony than he’d ever been. He had no idea how long it lasted. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours, but it didn’t really matter. Then end result was the same. 

When the lasers ceased, the machine powered down, and his breathing stopped coming in gasps, the lights did not come back up for him. 

And they never would again.

Harper was blind.


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

_There’s hope in a place, however dark,_   
_There’s hope in a prison cell._   
_‘Twas hope that lightened up Noah’s Ark_   
_When the raging waters fell._   
_And there’s never a breast so bleak and bare_   
_But the spark of hope is glistening there._

_Hope can shine through a gray stone wall_   
_And barriers strong and stout,_   
_And hope can answer the faintest call_   
_And no power can shut it out._   
_Though a man be shackled and locked away,_   
_Hope sings to him of a better day._

\- Edgar A. Guest, Old Earth

*****

Dylan was going nuts.

He’d been on the Nietzschean ship upwards of five days now, at least as far as he could guess, and he had yet to be let out of this cell. Worse, he had yet to even be spoken to! No demands, no smug gloating, no abuse; in another example of the universe’s sick sense of humor, Harper had been dragged off to bear all that, and Dylan had simply been shut up in a room and forgotten.

Well, not totally forgotten. Someone had brought water twice a day and something brown and gooey that was apparently supposed to be food. Dylan had finally broken down and ate it the second time, figuring he needed to keep his strength up, although for what he wasn’t sure. It had been over two days since they’d taken Harper and as much as he hated it, he had to admit the chances were slim the boy was still alive. Harper’s mouth and background plus a Drago-Kazov were a bad combination any day, and a Dragan on a mission to get information was even worse. Plus, the way Harper had been acting ever since they were captured, it was almost as if the boy had somehow known he wouldn’t live through this encounter. Still, Harper had survived a lot before…

Frustrated, angry, sad, and bored, Dylan once again paced the cell. There wasn’t anything else _to_ do. The cell was equipped with facilities to relieve nature’s needs but nothing else, not even a mattress to jump on. Typical Nietzschean design. Facilities added to the Ubers’ comfort level in the sense that they didn’t have to deal with a mess; blankets and mattresses only added to the prisoner’s comfort, something Nietzscheans stoically ignored.

With a sigh, Dylan changed directions. Might as well vary the view.

Ten minutes later, he’d had enough. If they refused to let him out to say his piece, he’d make them listen right here. He was in a prison cell! What self-respecting Uber didn’t monitor his prisoners? If they were going to watch and listen to him, he was going to make it worth their while.

“All right, listen up! I know you’re listening, and I’ve had it! I want to talk to Commander Felix right now, and I want you to return my engineer this instant and never touch him again! You people consider yourselves the most advanced and developed race in the universe and yet you have to pick on those who are smaller than yourselves and indefensible to make you feel big and strong? That tells me you’re weak, weaker than the humans you torment and play with. Now, I’m a High Guard Captain and –”

He stopped abruptly as he heard many feet approaching the cell and the door being unlocked. Maybe he had gotten someone’s attention after all!

He faced the door, wondering if he was finally going to see Felix face to face. Instead, two Ubers entered the room dragging a limp form while another waited in the doorway, gun fixed on Dylan.

“You asked us to return your engineer?” one guard sneered. “Very well, here he is, or at least what’s left of him. I doubt he’ll be much good as an engineer anymore, but take him and enjoy the time you have left together.”

With that, the men dumped Harper roughly on the ground, turned and left. Dylan didn’t even wait for the door to close before he rushed to the young man’s side, thinking angrily that this particular scene was becoming all too familiar.

Even with the lack of light, Harper looked horrible. Dylan was afraid he might be dead until he saw him move slightly.

“Dylan?” Harper moaned quietly, sounding unsure and almost scared.

“Yeah, Harper, I’m right here,” Dylan assured gently, kneeling by his friend but afraid to touch him or move him. Every time he’d tried that in the past Harper had freaked out. At least he was awake and talking, even if he sounded confused.

Slowly, painfully, Harper tried to push himself up off the floor but he couldn’t. With a groan, he sank back down and curled up, cradling his broken hands to his chest, his chains jangling.

“Ahhh…” he gasped softly, and Dylan’s heart broke. His friend was suffering terribly and he felt so useless just sitting there, not sure how to help.

“Harper, what is it? What can I do?” he asked, his hands hovering as he helplessly watched Harper shaking on the deck with his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

For a long time, Harper didn’t answer. Finally, after several moments his breathing calmed and he rasped out a few words. “It’s all right. I’m good – I’m okay.”

Dylan sighed, frowning at the obvious lies.

After a bit, Harper spoke again. “Boss, can you help me up? I can’t do it myself,” he admitted reluctantly.

“No problem,” Dylan assured him, glad to finally be allowed to help. Mindful of what happened the last time he touched the kid’s back, he carefully grasped Harper around the shoulders and pulled him up so he was sitting. Even as gentle as he was, he still heard the hiss of pain the boy tried to hide.

“Do you want to lean against the wall again?” he asked softly and Harper nodded.

A few minutes later, Harper was settled against the wall breathing harshly from the effort, and Dylan finally had a chance to try and look him over.

Harper’s face was cut, battered, and bruised and even in the bad light Dylan could see that his normally clear blue eyes were red and swollen, as if he’d been crying for hours. In fact, they still watered slightly, small tears leaking down his cheeks and getting lost in the dried blood and stubble on his chin. Dylan figured it was from the effort to mask the great pain he was actually in. The captain also noticed Harper’s dataport appeared to have been irritated, the skin around it blistered and red.

Sadly, Dylan glanced at the poor bare feet stretched limply out, even the chains motionless. Deep lacerations wrapped around them, slicing both top and bottom. They reached in bloody, broken twists around his ankles and disappeared up under his pants, leaving Dylan to wonder what his shins looked like. The shackles had been clamped mercilessly over the cuts, and Dylan knew that between them and the slices on his soles, any walking in the near future was going to be murder for his crewman.

And then his eyes were drawn to the hands Harper was still cradling protectively to his chest. A ragged wound completely pierced each of them, still oozing blood. Dark purple bruises spread outward from each hole, covering Harper’s whole hands and making it look as though each hand had been crushed in a vise. The still dripping wounds worried Dylan as much as they saddened and sickened him with their pointless cruelty. The captain was also certain Harper’s stained and dirty clothes hid numerous other wounds just as horrid and painful, but he was just a sure Harper would never show him or complain about the discomfort.

The cat flap suddenly sprang to life, startling both of them. The evening ration of food and water was pushed through and Dylan was surprised and grateful to see two trays appear. It meant Harper was staying for a while, and he hoped it also meant the Nietzscheans wanted him to remain alive. Seeing the bowls of water, he made a decision. Quickly, he pulled off his red shirt and then the undershirt beneath it.

“Harper,” he said in his firmest captain’s voice. “I know you don’t want to tell me what they did to you and you don’t want me touching you, and I respect that.” As he spoke, Harper’s pain filled eyes moved to rest vaguely on his position. Dylan pulled his shirt back on as he continued, taking the undershirt and tearing it into strips. “But I _can_ see your feet and your hands and I can tell they’re badly hurt. I’m gonna clean them and wrap them the best that I can and you’re going to let me. That’s an order, all right.”

“Boss –” Harper started.

Dylan cut him off as he continued tearing up his shirt. “Harper, it’s been almost three days since I’ve seen you. I thought you were dead. I thought they’d dragged you away and killed you and it was all my fault. As it is, you’re hurt terribly and that is my fault. At least let me do what I can to keep you alive and ease the pain!”

Silence broken only by the sound of tearing fabric stretched for several seconds before Dylan finally saw Harper nod.

“Good,” he told him gently.

“You have water?” Harper asked hoarsely, his head falling back against the wall and his eyes drifting shut.

“Yeah,” Dylan replied, wondering why Harper couldn’t see that for himself but chalking it up to the pain making his brain fuzzy. “It’s in those bowls they just brought.”

“Can I have a drink?” he whispered, his voice sounding sore. With a start, Dylan wondered when the last time the boy had been given food or drink was and cursed himself for not thinking of that sooner.

“Of course!” Dylan answered him, quickly bringing both trays over to his small pile of rags. One bowl he would use for cleaning Harper’s injuries; the other he gently held up to Harper’s cracked lips and helped him sip from.

“Careful, don’t drink too fast. You’ll want to save some to go with your dinner. Trust me, it goes down easier if you know you have something to wash the taste away afterward.”

Harper took two more careful sips and then Dylan set the bowl aside.

“Thanks,” Harper muttered, his voice still sounding very dry.

“When was the last time you had a drink?” Dylan couldn’t help but ask even though he doubted he’d like the answer.

“The last time I was here with you and they brought us some water,” Harper answered after a moment.

Three days, Dylan realized. Three days without water! It’s a wonder the engineer did survive. Carefully, Dylan poured half of the water from the second bowl into the first, leaving only an inch or so to use on the wounds. The injuries most certainly needed to be cleaned but at this point Dylan figured the water would do Harper much more good on the inside than the out.

“Although, I think I was given some fluids earlier today through an IV, along with a bunch of other junk,” Harper admitted quietly.

“An IV?” Dylan questioned. Alarmed, he remembered Harper’s words from days ago on the drift as he admitted he couldn’t go through the doorway.

“Yeah…” was all Harper said.

Silence filled the cell and Dylan finally decided Harper had said all he would for now.

“All right, Harper, I’m gonna clean and bandage your hands now. Are you ready?”

He looked far from ready, but Harper nodded bravely and held out his chained hands so Dylan could reach them.

The next fifteen or twenty minutes were not pleasant for either of them. Dylan worked as quickly as he could and Harper concentrated on staying conscious. The captain took each battered hand and tried to clean the wound gently. As he worked and then carefully bound the improvised bandages around them, he could feel the small bones moving around underneath the skin and the moans of pain Harper couldn’t hold back. He could tell Harper’s left hand was pretty much trashed, most of the bones splintered and probably several nerves and tendons severed as well. He thought his right hand might have fared slightly better, if you could discount the gaping hole gouged through it. Only one bone appeared to be broken and when he asked, Harper had been able to move three of his fingers. As he softly tucked the last corner in on the bandage, Dylan couldn’t help but wonder what unspeakable torture device could have caused what he’d just seen and felt.

He gave Harper a few minutes to recover before he gently asked if it was okay for him to start on his feet. Harper was pale as a ghost and sweating, but he simply told Dylan to get it over with. As there were no broken bones here, this part went much faster, but it was still painful and Dylan had to work around the pointless shackles.

Finally, ten minutes later, Harper was leaning against the wall with grey strips of T-shirt wrapped carefully around his hands, feet, and shins.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to check out anything else?” Dylan asked one last time.

“No, just leave it please,” Harper pleaded, his voice breathless with pain and his body shaking. Dylan noted the boy’s skin was flushed and his eyes weren’t tracking. Without asking permission, he reached forward and laid a hand on Harper’s forehead. As he suspected, the kid was burning with a fever.

_Of course he was._ Dylan sighed. Why should he have expected any less, what with the amount of injuries Harper was sporting and the crappy immune system he lived with.

Startled by the cool hand, Harper tried to duck away.

“Harper, you have a nasty fever,” Dylan said worriedly.

“Yeah, tell me something I don’t know,” he muttered, for the first time sounding vaguely like himself.

“You need to eat something, drink the rest of this water, and then you should try and get some rest.”

“Dylan, I –”

“Ah!” Dylan held up a finger, interrupting Harper’s weak protest, “No buts. Captain’s orders.”

“Yes, _Mom_ ,” Harper sighed, attempting a smile that was closer to a grimace.

“Okay, one tasty bowl of glop coming right up.”

“Yummy…”

Dylan brought the bowl to the young man’s lips and tipped it slowly, making sure not to rush him. Harper had swallowed barely a third of it when he reached up with his right hand and weakly brushed it aside. The captain had hoped he’d manage a bit more but decided not to push him.

“Ugh,” Harper muttered, pulling a face. ‘That tastes even worse than I remembered,” he said feebly, dropping yet another mystery for Dylan to file away in the mental folder that was Seamus Harper’s past.

“Here, have some more water to wash it down.”

He again held the bowl to the boy’s mouth and let him drink, this time urging him to finish it despite his protests that Dylan needed to drink some as well. As he helped him, Dylan could see that Harper was totally exhausted from battling the pain and the fever. His eyes continued to refuse to track motion and he dripped with sweat. Setting the bowl aside, he decided to take another risk and breach yet another point of Harper-etiquette. He pushed the trays out of the way and moved over to lean against the wall so he was sitting next to his friend, directly to his left.

“Boss, what are you doin’?”

“ _You_ are going to get some rest and you can’t do that sitting up against this hard wall. Now lie down and put your head on my legs.”

It was a mark of how badly Harper really felt that he offered no protest. He simply sighed.

“You’ll have to help me again. I’m not sure I can even move.”

Gently, Dylan helped the young man slide down onto his side and place his head in the captain’s lap. Instinctively, Harper curled his hands in toward his chest again, protecting them the only way he could.

It only took him thirty seconds to drift into a deep sleep. Dylan counted.

Shifting slightly, careful not to disturb his friend, Dylan placed a hand on his sweaty forehead and settled in for a long, watchful night.


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

_Let us pause in life’s pleasures to count its many tears_   
_While we all sop sorrow with the poor:_   
_There’s a song that will linger forever in our ears,_   
_Oh! Hard times, come again no more._

_While we seek mirth and beauty and music light and gay_   
_There are frail forms fainting at the door:_   
_Though their voices are silent, their pleading looks will say_   
_Oh! Hard times, come again no more._

_‘Tis a sigh that is wafted across the troubled wave,_   
_“Tis a wail that is heard upon the shore,_   
_‘Tis a dirge that is murmured around the lowly grave,_   
_Oh! Hard times, come again no more._

_‘Tis the song, the sigh of the weary,_   
_Hard times, hard times, come again no more:_   
_Many days you have lingered around my cabin door,_   
_Oh! Hard times, come again no more._

\- Stephen Foster, Old Earth

*****

Harper was dreaming.

He was dreaming of beaches and babes and soft sand under his toes. He was dreaming of warm waves washing in and of riding those waves as the sun melted into the horizon, scattering golden rays like fall leaves.

And then he woke up.

His eyes snapped open and he instantly went from a world of Technicolor pictures to a world that was a pitch black, empty void.

The shock of that first dark waking, combined with the wall of pain that slammed into him as his senses came alive again, was so great he couldn’t help but panic.

“Dylan!” he yelled, not caring if he sounded like a baby.

He heard footsteps and felt a hand land gently on his arm.

“Sh, Harper, it’s alright. I’m still here and you’re still in the cell with me,” he explained, thinking Harper was confused by his fever and assuming he was back in the torture chamber.

Harper lay still, trying to control his breathing and his panic. Oh, how he wished he hadn’t woken up! To go from surfing in the sun to gasping in agony in the dark was almost too much for him. He wasn’t sure how to react.

Truth be told, he was terrified. Yesterday he’d been too much in shock to really dwell on his blindness, but waking up in the dark had brought the horrible fact home. He had no idea what he was gonna do; he only knew he desperately didn’t want Dylan to find out.

As he slowly adjusted to the lack of sight, he realized just how much he hurt. It was even worse after a couple hours of sleep because everything had been given time to stiffen up. He had bruises everywhere, compliments of the expert beating Felix had subjected him to a few days ago, and he was pretty sure some of his ribs were at least cracked. He hadn’t paid much attention to the beating and the bruises because of _other events_ which had driven it out of his mind, but now his body forcefully reminded him. His time on the cross had caused other damage; his arms and shoulders gave a new definition to the term agony, and his hands throbbed constantly, a throb that changed to a scream if he tried to move them. He wondered vaguely exactly how many people there had been throughout time that could give a first-hand account to the aftereffects of crucifixion; certainly not a group he was glad he’d signed up for.

Then there was his head. It was pounding out the _1812 Overture_ inside his skull, making it very hard to concentrate what with the added disorienting darkness. And his eyes were in agony. They felt scratchy, dry and puffy, like he’d been sitting and staring directly into the smoke from a fire for hours. Vaguely, he wondered what they looked like; if they still appeared normal from the outside. He figured they must or Dylan would’ve called him on it by now. He could also tell his fever was still rising and he was pretty sure he knew the cause. His back was on fire; the lacerations from the whip raw and oozing infection. He knew without having to look because his shirt was stuck stiffly to his skin. He really should have let Dylan tend to it and the wounds on his chest, but he just couldn’t face anything else right now. It’s not like it was gonna kill him, anyway. Felix had already shown quite clearly that even the luxury of death had been stripped from him. _Been there, done that, had the T-shirt taken away._ They wanted him to suffer, but apparently they would take measures to make sure he stayed alive. Besides, soon Dylan would be gone, he would be a slave in a mine, and the whippings would just simply resume, so why dwell on it?

“Harper? Are you okay?”

Dylan’s voice penetrated Harper’s dark world. He realized it had been some time since he’d said anything or even moved.

_Hello, brilliant captain! Do I look okay?_

“Offer me another option and I’ll answer that,” he mumbled.

“Okay, yeah. Dumb question,” Dylan admitted. “How about, do you need me to help you up?”

_Yes_ , Harper thought but he stubbornly shook his head. Somehow, he had to get used to doing this himself. He was tired of being helpless. Gasping with the effort, he used his elbow to push himself partway up only to realize he was stuck. He needed an arm to balance the effort of getting to a sitting position and that arm was chained to the one pushing him up off the floor. He couldn’t hold himself there for long, but before he could collapse back in a heap he felt strong hands grasp his shoulders and steady him so he was sitting, his back once again throbbing against the wall.

“Thanks,” he said weakly after a moment to steady his breathing.

“Harper, you don’t have to keep thanking me. I’m your captain and your friend; I want to help you. You’d do the same for me if the situation were reversed.”

“Okay,” Harper admitted somewhat reluctantly. Even though he knew he should be grateful he still hated needing help, especially for something as basic as sitting up.

“So,” Dylan broke the silence a little later, “You feeling up to some breakfast?”

“We get breakfast?” Harper asked incredulously.

“Well, breakfast is a rather generous term, but yeah. There’s a little runny gruel here if you’re up to it. And more water, which you really need.”

“I guess,” Harper lied. Food actually sounded revolting, but he knew from experience slaves ate when they could. You never knew when you might get to again.

Through the darkness and the pain, Harper heard Dylan pull what must be a metal tray over.

“Dylan, let me do it this time?”

“Harper, your hands need to –”

“Boss, please!” He wasn’t even sure he _could_ do it, but he needed to try. Dylan was his boss and his friend and he knew he didn’t mind, but Harper couldn’t help hating the fact that he even needed that assistance. If he told the truth, he just hated that his mask of “happy-go-lucky-Harper” was slipping and Dylan was there to see it fall.

There was a long silence and Harper for the first time really felt his loss. He couldn’t see the captain, couldn’t tell what he was doing or read the expression on his face to know what was going through his mind. He just had to sit there, acting like he was waiting patiently, trying to play along and guess at the appropriate facial expression to paste on.

“Okay,” Dylan finally said, “but I really think you should just leave those hands alone and let them heal.”

“And that will make it all better?” Harper snapped, his frustration and pain finally getting the better of him. “You felt them as you wrapped them up; they’re a mess. The bones are in pieces. You know as well as I do that just leaving them alone to heal is not gonna make them work right again!”

Dylan sighed. What could he say to that? Besides, the anger from his engineer wasn’t exactly unexpected; it was just the first time the young man had admitted he was hurting. And underneath the anger, he sounded very scared and tired. Dylan had hoped that the hours of sleep would do him some good, even if it was only a little. Instead, the kid almost looked worse. His eyes were still pain-glazed and they appeared to have trouble focusing. It was as if Harper were staring vaguely off somewhere just to Dylan’s left, but he figured that was just a side effect of the high fever and the intense pain. Hopefully, it would clear up when those were gone. In the meantime, Dylan was much more worried about the boy’s feet and hands, not to mention the injuries he knew the engineer was hiding.

Harper’s eyes drifted shut and after a moment he spoke again.

“Look, Dylan, I’m sorry, okay. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. None of this is your fault and I really do appreciate the help.”

“Harper, it’s all right. You’re hurt and scared and hungry, not to mention you’re chained up in a cell. I’d be worried if you didn’t snap at something once in a while. Now, ready to try the cuisine?”

_Hurt and scared and hungry? Oh, Boss, you don’t know the half of it_ , Harper thought grimly. Out loud he said, “I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I wasn’t hungry?”

“I might, but I’d make you eat it anyway.”

“That’s what I figured,” Harper muttered, reaching out with his battered hands for the bowl and gritting his teeth to hide the pain it caused him. At least the fact that everything hurt so much he could barely move meant Dylan thought nothing of placing the bowl carefully in his hands for him. He never would have hid the fact that he couldn’t see if he had to go searching around the cell for it.

Clumsily, Harper used both hands to raise the bowl up and cough down some of the tasteless slop inside. He only managed a few swallows before the effort was too much for him. His broken hands screamed in agony and he couldn’t hold onto the bowl any longer. Just as it was slipping from his grasp, he felt Dylan reach out and take it from him.

“I can’t eat any more, Boss,” he breathed, letting his bound hands fall heavily back into his lap. “I’m sorry.”

“Fine, but you have to drink the water.”

Groaning, Harper tried to reach out again, but Dylan gently pushed his hands back down. “Uh uh, I will hold it this time.”

Harper conceded defeat and allowed Dylan to help him with the water, grateful as the murky liquid slid down his still parched throat. When it was gone, he leaned back and closed his eyes, exhausted from the small effort of eating, but he didn’t go to sleep. He might be in agony but at least he wasn’t chained to the ceiling being torture, or worse, hanging from a wooden cross. Relatively speaking, sitting in this cell was paradise. He finally felt coherent enough to carry on a conversation, and he didn’t want to waste this time with his friend by sleeping.

Dylan watched his young friend and anger flared inside of him. He was a High Guard Captain, trained to handle every situation and protect his crew at all costs. It rankled against every value and standard he had to have to sit there, powerless to do anything as his crewman suffered. He believed in fair play and mercy and justice, but right now, looking at the boy sitting across from him, all he really wanted to do was dish out some serious pain on the heartless people who had done this to him.

“So, um, Dylan?”

Harper broke the silence, raising his head to face the captain’s position.

“What have you been doing while I was…um…chatting with the Ubers? You okay? I should have asked earlier, but I wasn’t thinking too straight. Put it down to Sparky withdrawal…”

“I’m fine. Bored out of my mind, but fine. I haven’t actually left this room since they put me here five days ago,” Dylan answered, slightly touched Harper had thought to ask about his wellbeing given the pain the kid was currently in.

“Lucky you…” Harper muttered, not completely in jest.

“Harper?” Dylan scooted closer to his friend, needing to know, “What did they do to you?”

“Gave me tea and cupcakes and asked me to join their Bridge Club,” Harper deadpanned, sounding so much like the old Harper that if it weren’t for the ever present grimace of pain, Dylan might have laughed. Instead, he ignored it, knowing Harper was trying to distract him.

“Harper,” Dylan pressed, “what did they do?”

With a sigh, Harper leaned his head back again and let his eyes slide closed once more. “A lot of things that we’re not gonna talk about right now, okay?” he said darkly, the joking tone instantly gone.

“Mr.-”

“Boss,” Harper cut him off, “Trust me. Just don’t go there right now, please!”

The words sounded almost desperate and Dylan cursed his need to know, realizing he was pushing too hard.

“Sorry,” he said earnestly, sliding back to settle against the wall directly across from Harper.

There was a rather strained silence for several minutes. Dylan thought of suggesting Harper get some more rest but he’d already mothered enough for a while; he knew Harper wouldn’t take kindly to anymore.

“When we get out of this, you’re taking a long shore leave, Captain’s orders,” Dylan said trying to lighten the mood, but somehow, it only seemed to make his engineer’s frown deepen.

“Boss,” Harper finally said, “you need to promise me something.”

“What?”

“If you get the chance to escape, promise me you’ll take it and just go?”

“We’re both getting out of here, Harper,” Dylan stressed.

“I’m serious!” Harper pressed, shifting to try and sit up straighter and face the captain, grimacing as angry hurts protested the motion. “I’m not getting out of here anytime soon; I can barely move. If you see the chance, just take it and don’t worry about me!”

Now Dylan was really getting angry. He would never leave a crewman or a friend behind; and he wasn’t about to let Harper’s pain cause him to become a martyr.

“Harper, I’m not leaving you here so don’t ask me to make a promise like that. We’ll both leave here, together, got it?”

“Boss, you still just don’t get it, do you!” Harper exploded with as much pent up rage as his battered body would let him. Fiercely, he gestured vaguely with a broken hand to his left ear, ignoring the pain that motion cost him. “There’s no way in the universe Felix is ever gonna let me go now!”

For the first time Dylan noticed the piece of metal attached to the boy’s left ear; in all the worry over Harper’s injuries and fever he’d failed to see it in the dark cell. Suddenly, the light went on and the understanding that had been teasing him, just out of reach since Harper had first paled at the mention of Sommer’s Drift, clicked into place. He remembered that short recording of a five-year younger Harper, the brief flash of a metal earring, and the later eye-opening conversation with Beka, and he found he was left with no words to speak.

“I’m a slave, Dylan,” Harper spoke again, much quieter. “A slave.”

“Oh, Harper…” Dylan finally managed to find his tongue. “You mean Felix is your ma-” He stopped abruptly, realizing with horror what he had been about to say as a look of pure hatred and humiliation crossed his engineer’s face.

“My master? Yeah. Go ahead and say it because it’s true. I, Seamus Zelazny Harper, am nothing more than the property of Gaius Felix, and rather worthless and damaged property at that.”

“Harper, that’s not true!”

Harper was tiring rapidly and the little breakfast he had managed to eat didn’t feel entirely settled in his sore stomach. He didn’t have the energy to argue with the captain anymore.

“Dylan, I’m stuck on his ship, wearing his chains and his slave tag. It doesn’t get much more straightforward than that. Besides, been there before, remember? I know slavery when I see it.”

Dylan was silent for so long Harper wondered if he’d made him angry. When he finally spoke again, Harper jumped slightly.

“You knew, didn’t you?” Dylan said quietly, gazing at his engineer with an expression Harper wouldn’t have been able to read even if he could see it. “You knew Felix would be on that drift and that’s why you didn’t want to go.”

Dylan felt slightly sick as he realized exactly what had happened, what he’d done. The boy’s terrified and strange behavior of the last few days suddenly made sense. Harper had known Felix would be waiting for him on that drift and had come with Dylan anyway out of loyalty and friendship, something he often accused the boy of lacking.

As that thought crossed his mind, Dylan instantly regretted even thinking it. He remembered the last time they’d gone on one of these adventures together and how Harper had been willing to step in front of a bullet for him. How could he ever think that Harper wasn’t loyal? Just because Harper had no great loyalty to the new Commonwealth did _not_ mean he wasn’t loyal to his friends. And who could blame the boy if he sometimes had an “every-man-for-himself” attitude? Look at the circumstance he grew up in! Once again, Harper had surprised him and caught him off-guard with a show of great friendship the captain wasn’t even sure he’d done anything to deserve. And this time, Harper had done it all knowing that if they got caught he wouldn’t simply be captured by a bunch of angry Dragans but actually thrust right back into the hands of the master he’d barely escaped from years ago, to be tortured, beaten and enslaved once more.

“Well, I didn’t know for sure he’d be there, but I knew there was a good chance,” Harper admitted reluctantly, continuing the conversation even as Dylan’s thoughts were running off on tangents. “I’d never _personally_ been there before. Felix is from the family of Ubers that rule Boston, and even as a slave I never left his compound or the ghetto on Earth. But his father was one of the most important Dragans in the whole empire and Felix inherited several of the worlds and drifts that he once commanded. As soon as Beka and Bobby got me off Earth, I made a point to look them all up and add them to my “never-vacation-there” list.” _And Rellim was always the most feared, an extended death sentence to any slave unfortunate enough to get themselves shipped there_ , Harper couldn’t help but add silently.

Harper quit talking as a spasm of pain swept through his slight frame. He really, really didn’t feel good right now.

Dylan noticed that Harper was shaking slightly, his face pale and sweaty. Alarmed, he reached forward and felt his skin again, finding it even hotter than before.

“Harper– ” he began, wanting the boy to lie down again, but Harper cut him off.

“Boss! Help me to the toilet; that breakfast wants out!”

His voice sounded suddenly desperate and his face was slightly green, spurring Dylan to act without questioning. As gently as he could in his rush, he grasped him around the arms and pulled the young man to his feet, half dragging and half walking Harper to the corner.

They barely made it.

When Harper had finished emptying the pitiful contents of his stomach, he sank into a heap on the ground, exhausted from the effort and in agony from the short trip.

“Harper, let me help you back to the wall,” Dylan coaxed gently.

“Just a sec,” Harper breathed heavily, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, “Just give me a sec…”

His voice faded away and Dylan panicked. “Harper!” he called loudly, grabbing his shoulder, “Stay with me here!”

“AHH!” Harper cried as Dylan grabbed him, “Don’t touch me, please! I’m still here…still here…just don’t touch me!”

Dylan quickly withdrew his hand, cursing himself.

“Harper, I have to touch you to help you back to the wall. I’ll try to be careful but I’m not gonna let you lay here, curled around the toilet!”

Just then, the door to their cell clanged open and the friendly neighborhood brute squad strode in.

“On your feet, Kludge!” one of them barked at Harper and the boy groaned. “Commander Felix wants to talk some more.”

The Uber grinned evilly and Dylan seethed inside. He looked at Harper shaking on the ground and made a firm decision as he once again remembered Harper jumping in front of him, willing to take a bullet for his captain. It was something he should have done days before.

“No,” he said simply, standing up and moving to face the guards, placing himself between them and Harper.

“What did you say, _Captain_?” Brute number one asked, turning his gun on Dylan.

“I said no. You’re not taking him again. You’re killing him and I won’t let you! Shoot me if you want but I’m not moving. And I’m betting Felix would be very upset if his important prisoner was killed on your watch,” Dylan added meaningfully. “I want to talk to Felix now and _you_ are gonna take me to him.”

The three Nietzscheans almost looked stunned. Apparently, they weren’t used to dealing with prisoners who refused to be intimidated. Finally, at a motion from the leader, one of the guards stepped out and spoke quietly over his wrist comm. for a moment. When he came back in, he nodded slightly.

“Well, Captain Hunt, it appears you will get your wish. The Kludge stays here and the Commander would like to speak with you.” He gestured for the captain to leave the cell.

“I’m _so_ glad we could come to this understanding. See, communication really does work,” Dylan said sarcastically. Then, with one last backward look at Harper, he exited the cell with the guards, leaving Harper alone on the floor. There was no one to help him up, but Dylan hoped he’d spared him another beating, at least for now.


	15. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

_Well, I guess that you probably know by now,_   
_I was one who wanted to fly._   
_I wanted to ride on that arrow of fire right up into heaven._   
_And I wanted to go for every man,_   
_Every child, every mother of children._   
_I wanted to carry the dreams of all people right up to the stars._

_And I prayed that I’d find an answer there,_   
_Or maybe I would find the song,_   
_Giving a voice to all of the hearts that cannot be heard._   
_For all of the ones who live in fear,_   
_And all of those that stand apart,_   
_My being there would bring us a little step closer together._

_And I wanted to wish on the Milky Way_   
_And dance upon a falling star._   
_I wanted to give myself, and free myself, and join myself with it all._

\- John Denver, Old Earth

*****

Harper heard Dylan leave the cell with the guards and the door slam shut, not quite believing or understanding what had just happened. He was too worn out to ponder for long, however, and soon drifted asleep again, curled where he lay.

Quite a bit later, he woke to blackness for a second time. The shock once again caused his heart to race and his breath to catch in his throat. He lay there terrified, not knowing if he was alone, if Dylan was back, or if the cell was now crawling with Niets. Funny, really; five days ago the cell had seemed small and confining, now he felt it yawning around him with never-ending space. Heck, he didn’t even know if he was still in the cell; he could be anywhere. All he knew was he was surrounded by dark, impenetrable blackness and silence.

“Dylan?” he finally called timidly.

There was no answer.

“Boss?” he tried again, louder. Still, he got no answer.

“Is anyone there?” he called one last time, even though he was now certain he was alone, or at least they wanted him to think he was alone.

Resigned to the silence, he lay still for a while more, cataloguing his hurts and just thinking. He didn’t feel much better, but he also didn’t feel any worse. His battered body was doing its best to heal his injuries and the small privileges of a few hours of sleep and a little food and water were finally starting to help. He was immensely grateful Dylan had saved him from another session with Felix, but at the same time he was now very worried that act would cost the captain dearly. Harper couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever see the man again. Would Felix send Dylan away? Would he leave him in prison? Or was Dylan even now being tortured for saving him, maybe even killed?

With nothing else to do, he lay still, listening carefully and trying to figure out if he was still in the same cell. After a moment he realized it wasn’t really silent at all. Now that he was listening, the hum of the engines seemed unnaturally loud through the darkness, but it didn’t tell him much. Then he remembered something. Carefully, he reached out with a throbbing hand until he felt the cool, smoothness of the toilet base, finally confirming that he was still where he fell asleep.

Roughly ten minutes later, Harper had decided that he was thoroughly tired of lying on the floor and worshiping at the base of the porcelain god. Pain or no pain, it was time to get up.

It took every ounce of will he had left to accomplish that simple act. And it would never have been possible if Dylan hadn’t left him lying where he was. Finally, using his elbows, his knees, and the john for leverage, and after having to stop several times to catch his breath, Harper was standing. Well, leaning breathlessly against the wall would be more accurate, he admitted to himself, but at least he was on his feet.

And _boy_ did that hurt!

The deep cuts on his feet flared up violently as he put his weight on them, reminding him of their presence with a vengeance. He couldn’t look to be sure, but he guessed from the pain that there must be at least three or four serious lacerations crisscrossing the soles of each foot, a painful reminder of the wires that had helped hold him to the cross.

“Look on the bright side,” he muttered to himself, “They could have been nails…” Subconsciously, he drew his hands protectively into his chest as he continued to steady his breathing.

Since he’d made the effort to get to his feet, he figured he might as well keep going. With his arm and elbow against the wall as both an anchor and a guide, he hesitantly slid his foot forward, taking his first solo step into the dark unknown.

Left, right, left…

With teeth gritted against the pain and his elbow touching the wall, he slid each foot forward slowly, forcing himself to breathe after each one. The steps were small and hesitant as he tested his courage, his endurance, and the length of the shackles he couldn’t see. After what felt like an eternity, he reached a corner; it somehow felt like a major accomplishment. Turning, he resumed the shuffled exploration of his dark prison, forcefully ignoring the discomfort as shackles rubbed open wounds and pain flared through lacerated feet.

Wall, corner, turn; wall, corner, turn…

Even though it hurt and his fever was still high enough he was pretty sure the room would be spinning if he could see it, he kept going. Dylan would have told him to rest, but Dylan wasn’t there – might never be there again – and Harper knew that resting was a luxury snatched away from him, just like his life on the _Andromeda_. All that was left now was surviving, and if there was anything Harper knew, it was survival.

So he walked, and told himself to get used to the dark and the pain and to being alone. No use moaning over what was past.

But he couldn’t stop his thoughts from wandering to the past against his will. As he limped slowly around the walls of his cell, his mind drifted, torturing him with all that he’d lost. Even if the world around him was dark, the faces of his friends still flashed across his mind. Tyr: menacing and growling, but somehow always forcing him to be more than he thought he could be. Rev: a living enigma and an oasis of kindness. Trance: purple and gold, the same and yet not, but still his best friend. Dylan: his captain and a man he looked up to almost like a brother. Rommie: the most beautiful, butt-kicking babe in the known worlds! And Beka… Beka was the first person since he’d lost his own family that he’d let sneak through the thick walls Earth had built around his heart. She was his savior, his friend, his big sister, and it hurt more than he could ever say to know that he would never see her again, never get to say goodbye.

Right, left, right, corner, turn…

He saw _Andromeda_ in her field of stars, beautiful and majestic and powerful. He felt the thrill as he worked with his hands on a project, joining wires here and connecting parts there, making something useful out of nothing, giving life to the notions of his mind. And he remembered his broken hands and eyes and dataport and couldn’t stop the small, salty tear that leaked down one cheek.

Left, right, stumble…stop and breathe, go on…

Five years in space…five years. For an Earther, he should feel lucky. For five years he’d known food and shelter on a daily bases; safety. He’d known friends and affection and the freedom and encouragement to test his abilities. Five years…that was more time than half the population born on Earth even managed to survive. In that time he’d had surfing and Sparky Cola and good friends and cool toys. And he’d flown! He’d flown up through the skies and lived among the stars!

And in five days it had all been ripped away, broken beyond fixing.

_Spilt milk, Seamus…spilt milk…_

One more tear slid down a bruised cheek, and then Harper forced his blank eyes to dry. The past was just that, in the past, and it would stay there. Now…now he would do what he always did: survive.

Wearily, he turned a corner again, in the cell and also in his soul, leaving behind the shattered colors of what was and turning to face the terrifying darkness of what was to come.

Left, right, left, right…shuffled, broken steps in the dark.

 

**END of PART 1**


	16. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

_There’s two theories to arguin’ with a woman. Neither one works._

\- Texas Bix Bender

*****

The door to the office smashed open, causing the bored looking Nietzschean, much to his chagrin, to jump.

“Where. Are. They!” Beka demanded, marching right up to the desk, her eyes a terrible calm. Tyr followed her into the room while Rommie stood in the doorway, keeping an eye out for trouble.

“What? Who?” sputtered the captain of the Uber guard in anger. “Just who do you think you are? I’ll have you arrested for this! I’ll have you killed for this!”

“And I’ll have you disintegrated before you can even decide where you want your ashes scattered!” Beka growled, her eyes now blazing with barely contained rage.

In typical Nietzschean fashion, the man had recovered from his shock and assumed a dangerous stance.

“Who do you think you are, Kludge, bursting into my office like this with your pet Nietzschean posing as guard?” His own eyes flashed. “You’re way out of line!”

Beka ignored his words. “We’re looking for two of our crewmates, and we think you know where they are,” she said, her gun emitting a whir as it powered up. “They’ve been missing for over five days now so we passed asking nicely a long time ago.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the Niet said smugly, showing instantly that he knew exactly what she was talking about. “How did you get in here? Where are my guards!”

“Your little friends?” Rommie spoke up from the doorway. “Oh, they’re just taking a short nap. At least, most of them are. I’m afraid you have a few vacancies to fill in your department.”

The cornered man growled with rage, but none of the other three people in the room cared one bit for how he was feeling. 

“You will never get out of here alive, you know that!” he said, looking far too superior given his current situation.

“I would be more worried about your own pitiful life if you do not tell us where you are keeping Captain Hunt and the Little Professor. Captain Valentine takes the boy’s welfare rather personal and I wouldn’t be surprised if her finger should slip and _accidentally_ shoot you,” Tyr intoned lightly.

“What makes you think your captain and crewman are even here?”

“We know they came here, and all evidence points to the fact that they never left,” Rommie said.

“So where are they!” Beka demanded, her gun never wavering.

“I don’t discuss business with Kludges and genetic misfits,” the Nietzschean spat, looking with disgust on Beka and Tyr.

With lightning speed, Beka’s gun fired and the Niet howled with anger and pain, clutching his right arm.

“Wrong answer,” she said. “Try again.”

“I will tell you nothing!”

The gun discharged and this time there was a smoking hole in his left leg.

“What have you done with them!” Beka practically snarled. When the Niet looked ready to stall again she added, “You have two other limbs…”

“Fine. Yes, they were here,” he hissed, “but they aren’t anymore.”

“You’re lying!” Beka growled.

“Why would I bother to lie to Kludges?” he asked haughtily. “You’re welcome to search the whole drift, but you won’t find them. They’re not here.”

“Then where are they?” Tyr pressed, stepping up to the desk.

“Your friends were caught trespassing, just as you are now! Commander Gaius Felix felt like dealing with them personally and he had us escort them to his ship.”

Beka noticeably paled and her anger flared.

“Where is the ship now?”

“I don’t know,” the Uber spat. Beka’s gun powered up again but Rommie cut in.

“He’s not lying, Beka. I doubt he’s important enough to be privy to his commander’s agendas,” she commented.

Beka absorbed Rommie’s words unhappily. This whole affair wasn’t turning out the way she’d hoped, not that she’d had high hopes to begin with. Over the years, Harper had confided in her things he’d never shared with the others. And life on a small freighter meant cramped quarters and limited privacy. She’d seen things, accidentally, that told her even more than Harper’s own stories had. Because of that, she’d started on this trip knowing full well the shape she’d probably find her friend in at the end of it. She’d just never considered the possibility that they _wouldn’t_ be on the drift. Now she felt deflated, worn out. It was like all her energy had been focused on getting to Sommer’s Drift and saving her friend from a fate worse than death. (And yeah, rescuing Captain Terrific was on the to-do list as well.) But now that the universe had thrown her a curve ball, she was at a loss how to react. 

“Beka.” 

Trance’s voice startled her, pulling her attention once more to the doorway as she realized the golden girl had joined them. “We should go now,” Trance told her in that oh so mysterious and yet always right way of hers.

“I found the _Maru_ ,” she continued, totally ignoring the bleeding Nietzschean starring at her with open curiosity and contempt.

Her words had the desired effect, and Beka found her focus again. “Good work, Trance.” She turned back to the Niet. “You’re absolutely sure you have no idea where Felix’s ship is at?” Beka asked on last time.

“None! Not that I’d tell you if I did,” the guard growled.

“Fine then. Let’s go people.”

Beka strode through the door, Rommie and Trance following. They were partway down the corridor when they heard gunfire behind them. All three women whirled around to find Tyr emerging from the office. Beka quirked an eyebrow at him.

“I’m not a pet,” he said simply. “And he would have spoiled our surprise visit to this Commander Felix. I assume we _are_ going after the good Captain and the boy?”

“Of course! We just have to broaden the search area,” Beka told him. Beka tried to feel some remorse for the now dead Nietzschean, but all she kept coming up with was the image of a struggling Harper being dragged off by him to meet one of his nightmares face to face. “Come on, let’s go get the _Maru_ and get back to _Andromeda_ ,” she told the others. “We still have a rescue to perform.”

*****

Beka sat alone at the counter in the _Maru’s_ common room. Before her were five multicolored jewels and the flexi she’d found in Dylan’s traveling bag, detailing the mission he was assigned and finally explaining just why he’d set off on this cosmic fling in the first place. She’d read it top to bottom, not caring a wit about the “classified” code at the beginning. It hadn’t given her any comfort, however. Just added to the sense of failure she now felt. At least the Niets hadn’t found the jewels and the flexi. Thank Harper and his incredibly hard security locks! The Ubers hadn’t been able to do more than put a few dents in the airlock before they gave up and just left the _Maru_ alone, waiting for a Tug to come along and tow her out of dock.

_Harper_.

Beka felt a shiver run down her spin as she thought of the young engineer. The last three weeks had been so quiet without him around talking her ear off and causing general mayhem at every turn. Oh, how she missed him!

And to think where he was! He’d told her enough for her to know that wherever he was at, he wasn’t enjoying the stay. Dylan, as a High Guard Captain, probably wasn’t high on the Dragans’ most honored guests list either. She just hoped they could rescue them before irreparable damage was done.

The sound of the airlock opening made Beka glance up as Trance walked in.

“Beka, Rommie says she’s picked up the trail of the _Charybdis_. It’ll take a few days, but we’ll probably be able to catch up to her.”

Beka simply nodded. It was a good thing Harper had been paranoid enough to keep tabs on Felix’s ship. Otherwise they never would have had a chance.

“What are these?” Trance asked, pointing to the gems on the table.

“Jewels for some planet or other Dylan was gonna try and get into the Commonwealth. That’s why the boys were on Sommer’s Drift in the first place. They were supposed to get the last jewel there, but, well…you know.”

“What color was this last jewel supposed to be?”

“Blue, why?”

Trance pulled something out of her pocket and held it palm up for Beka to see. On her hand a deep, blue gem sparkled against her skin.

“Trance! What… Where… How did you get that?” Beka asked, stunned.

“Oh, well, after I found the _Maru_ and was coming to tell you guys, I accidentally went in the wrong door. There was all this gold and these thrones lying around, and there in the middle was this jewel. It was so pretty, I just decided to keep it.”

With a small laugh, Beka took the jewel from Trance and placed it on the table next to the others. “Why Trance, that sounded almost _purpleish_.”

Trance just shrugged her shoulders with an unreadable look.

A short second later, Beka sobered again. 

“Trance, are we gonna find them in time? Will they be okay?” she asked.

“Time is relative, Beka. And there are many definitions of _okay_ ,” Trance said cryptically.

“Come on, Trance. If you know something, help me out here. I’m floundering.”

Trance came up and sat beside her friend, putting her arm around her. “I don’t know anything. There are many possible futures and none are any clearer than any others right now. I do feel we should hurry, but that’s simply the same emotion all the rest of you are feeling.”

Beka sighed. “I miss them, Trance.”

“I miss them, too,” Trance said quietly, and then the two women drifted into silence, both thinking about their missing friends.


	17. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

_Oh East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,_   
_Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat;_   
_But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,_   
_When two strong men stand face to face, though they come from the ends of the earth._

\- Rudyard Kipling, Old Earth

*****

The three Nietzschean goons led Dylan into a room several corridors down from his and Harper’s cell. They instructed him to wait for Felix and then left, leaving him standing in the middle of the chamber. The door wasn’t locked, but Dylan knew better than to try and leave. Besides, he wanted answers and he wanted them now.

While he waited, Dylan glanced around and suddenly felt a cold chill settle over him.

This was no ordinary room.

Chains graced the walls and hung from the ceiling. There were chairs with straps and wicked looking buttons. In the corner, a cold metal table fitted with restraints stood, a sinister machine attached to its top. And all around instruments of torture lay like abandoned play things.

Dylan felt sick. Not because he was afraid for himself, but because he knew Harper had spent many, many hours in this room. Dylan couldn’t stop himself from imagining the young man here, chained to the ceiling, or strapped to one of those chairs. All manner of images played across him mind, each more gruesome than the next, each trying to explain the injuries he’d seen and the ones Harper had refused to show him.

Off to the side, something caught his eye, and he turned with trepidation. There, rising from the metal deck, was a plain wooden post, thick and square and seemingly out of place in the torture room of a space-going vessel. He couldn’t figure out what it might be used for, but he noticed dried blood staining it about a foot and a half from the base. It said nothing about the post’s purpose but gut instinct told him it was Harper’s blood. In the background, almost lost in the shadows, another, shorter wooden beam lay on the deck.

“Ah, Captain Hunt.”

Dylan turned at the sound of Felix’s grating voice. Today, the Commander was dressed in robes of deep blue silk. He favored Dylan with a crocodile smile as he sat in his plush chair, a glass of wine in one hand.

“I see you’re admiring my play room? Quite nice, isn’t it? Your engineer has sure enjoyed it.”

Dylan didn’t see any reason to grace that twisted comment with a reply. Instead, he changed the subject.

“Why are you keeping us here? What do you want? You can’t just hold us here indefinitely; we’re Commonwealth citizens! We have rights you know!”

“Ah, see, that’s where you’re mistaken. On the hypothetical assumption that the Drago-Kazov Empire chooses to even _recognize_ the authority of the Commonwealth, let me explain something to you. _You_ are a citizen; _you_ have rights. Seamus Harper is an escapee from a Dragan slave world. Furthermore, he is _my_ slave. I bought him, I marked him, I own him! He has no rights, and I may do whatever I wish with him.”

Felix spoke as though he was explaining this to a very small child, and Dylan felt his blood start to boil.

“So what?” he asked, moving his arms harshly in frustration. “You’re just gonna keep me here, locked in that cell, for the next thirty years or so? Meanwhile, you’re gonna slowly beat and torture my engineer to death? You know, that sounds like a real intelligent plan! Why didn’t I think of that?”

“You seem to possess a liking for the same mindless sarcasm as my slave.”

“Thanks,” Dylan snarled, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You know, if he’d learned to curb that tongue while in your service, I maybe wouldn’t have had to give him so many lessons in manners these last few days,” Felix sighed dramatically.

If Dylan thought it would have done even an _ounce_ of good, he would have decked the Nietzschean. As it was, he tried very, very hard to remain calm.

“The _Andromeda_ will come for us. You have to know that.”

“I’m counting on it. In fact, I’m hoping they show up for your trial. It would be a sad day indeed if the Commonwealth you helped restart couldn’t be bothered to put in an appearance at your sentencing. It is rather a shame, however, they won’t be able to save you from prison. Who would have ever thought the great Captain Hunt would go down for trespassing?”

“And what about Harper,” Dylan asked through clenched teeth. “Are you just planning to beat him to death?”

“The thought does have a certain appeal…” Felix drawled and Dylan’s face turned dark with anger, “but, don’t worry, he will live. The years he spent away from me and on your ship have given the boy a rather large opinion of himself. I’m afraid he had to be taught his place again. Earth Kludges are so brainless; they don’t grasp a concept until it has been beaten into them,” Felix explained dismissively.

“Harper’s not stupid, nor should he have to be taught his _place_ by the likes of you,” Dylan stated firmly. He realized his words would make little difference and that he was treading on dangerous ground as far as his own safety was concerned, but he wouldn’t stand by and let this man belittle a member of his crew. “Harper is the best engineer I’ve ever known!”

Felix grinned sinisterly. “You mean _was_ the best engineer. It doesn’t matter how smart he might be, he’ll never be much good as an engineer again, will he?”

Dylan pictured Harper’s broken hands and remembered the red, abused skin around the boy’s dataport, and he suddenly knew some of Harper’s injuries were not just random. Felix had deliberately taken away Harper’s ability to do the one thing he loved more than anything. In the end, he might just as well have killed the young man. True, with prompt care and treatment, many of the wounds could be healed, but that would never happen while he and Harper remained in Felix’s custody.

Still fighting desperately to remain calm when all he really wanted to do was strangle the gloating Nietzschean, Dylan asked hotly, “If you aren’t going to beat him to death and you’ve destroyed his ability to work as an engineer, what _are_ you planning to do with Mr. Harper?”

“You really are in no position to make demands like that, you know Captain? At any second, with the simple flick of a finger, I could have you strung up and in more pain than you could ever imagine. However, since you amuse me, I’ll indulge your little fantasy of authority and answer your questions,” Felix laughed. “Seamus Harper is my slave; a slave that thumbed his nose at my care and protection once by running away. That act sealed his fate. He shall now be sent to labor in the mines until such time as his pitiful little body succumbs to the effort and he dies. His life will be one of weariness and pain, so others may see what happens to those who would dare defy their betters!”

Felix’s tone had started out lightly but rose in strength and fervor with each new sentence until he was practically growling by the last syllable. His words also caused Dylan’s insides to twist painfully, and he had to resist the urge to start pacing. They were in a bad situation, but Harper’s was going to get a lot worse really soon if he didn’t manage to do something about it. The _Andromeda_ would come, but he had no way of knowing if they would get there in time, and once they lost Harper down in those mines Dylan knew they’d never get him out alive again. Especially not if he was the only one who knew the young man’s whereabouts and he was left rotting in some Uber prison.

“What if I go in his place?” Dylan finally asked, giving voice to the only option he had.

“What?” Felix asked, clearly not expecting that.

“I said, what if I go to the mines, in Harper’s place?” Dylan repeated, looking Felix straight in the eyes. Harper wouldn’t last through two weeks of hard labor in his current condition, but Dylan could probably hold out until the cavalry arrived.

The stunned look remained on the Nietzschean’s face all of two more seconds before he threw back his head and laughed.

“Oh, how touching! The mighty Dylan Hunt protecting the worthless little Kludge! I could write a novel; a real tear-jerker!” Felix paused and finally stood up, invading Dylan’s personal space. “Unfortunately, I am not a writer. I’m a Commander in the Drago-Kazov Empire, and I will not be made a fool of by one pathetic slave! He’s a slave! Nothing more than dust that breathes and exists for greater forces and minds to use and control. He will serve his purpose, and you will not deprive him of that.”

Frustrated, out of options, and very mad, Dylan threw out his last plan. It was a horrible idea, really, and would hardly save Harper at all, but it was all he had left. Plan B always sucked…

“Then let me go with him. You and I both know that he won’t last a week on his own and with his injuries. But with help, he might survive a lot longer.”

“You, _Captain_ Dylan Hunt, would willingly be sent to the mines, just to help one half-dead Kludge? For one _child_ you would sell yourself into slavery?”

“Yes!” Dylan practically shouted. “I just told you that! Are you deaf or do you just enjoy hearing me repeat myself? Since you didn’t get it the first time, I will say it again. Let me go with Harper, wherever it is you’re sending him, and you’ll not only get a slave that will live longer, you’ll get two slaves for the price of one.”

Felix didn’t respond, not even to the blatant jabs. Dylan held his breath as the man circled him, studying him thoroughly. The captain was playing on the Niet’s inborn arrogance and betting all he had on the hope that the commander would be unable to resist the lure of a Commonwealth captain as his slave. If it didn’t work, Harper would almost certainly be lost to him and the rest of the crew forever.

“I like it,” Felix finally said. “Prison would be such a waste, anyway. Besides, never before has a person of such high status begged me to make them my slave. How could I resist?”

With the touch of a button, two guards appeared. They forced Dylan to his knees while Felix retrieved a tool from one of the many trays scattered around the room. Dylan gritted his teeth at the forced humility but kept quiet. While the goons held him still, Felix roughly grabbed his hair and titled his head to the right. One biting pain later and Dylan had his very own slave tag attached to his left ear, just like Harper.

“You do realize you’ve just sold your soul to me, do you not, Captain? Oh wait…you aren’t a captain anymore, are you? You’re just a slave! And as my slave, _Dylan_ , I assure you I will no longer tolerate your delusions of grandeur and reckless words! Think carefully before you speak or act now, or you may find both yourself and the Kludge suffering for your lack of restraint!”

That said, he roughly released Dylan’s head. “Take him back to the cell for now,” he instructed the guards. “We will arrive at Rellim within the day, but let them enjoy their last moments of leisure time as best they can while they ponder their new lives.”


	18. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

_Can you hear the prayer of the children,_   
_On bended knee, in the shadow of an unknown room?_   
_Empty eyes with no more tears to cry,_   
_Turning heavenward, toward the light._

\- Kurt Bestor

*****

This time the guards were none too gentle as they dragged Dylan back to the cell. The door opened, and he was shoved in so roughly he landed on his knees. The door clanged shut before he could regain his footing.

“Dylan?” a very hesitant voice asked as soon as the door was shut.

Instantly, Dylan searched the dim room for Harper. To his surprise, he wasn’t lying on the floor where he’d left him but had somehow managed to get himself to a corner and was sitting up, his back against one wall and his head resting sideways against the other. The engineer’s feet were stretched out in front of him, and his battered hands rested limply in his lap, the pointless chains dull against his pale skin.

The sound of Dylan’s less than graceful entry had drawn his attention, and he raised his head, his eyes open wide and his face showing a rare moment of fear and vulnerability.

“Yes, I’m back, Harper,” Dylan said, scooting over to sit by his friend, concerned by his voice and apparent confusion.

“Did he hurt you?” Harper asked, his voice still very weak.

Dylan smiled sadly at the question, feeling a bit guilty. Every time Harper had been dragged away from this cell to “talk” with Felix he’d come back in agony, and yet Dylan returned after several hours without even a scratch.

“No, he didn’t hurt me.”

“Good,” Harper said, and Dylan knew he meant it. The engineer shifted a little to try and find a position that hurt less than the rest, but it was a futile effort. Dylan watched him with worry, noting the pale, sweaty skin and still rather vacant eyes. Not caring what Harper thought, the captain reached forward and felt his forehead once again.

“Harper, your fever is still rising,” Dylan said, alarmed.

Harper twisted his head away from Dylan’s hand. “Yeah, so?”

“How did you get over here?” he asked. As he spoke, he glanced up and down the young man and noticed that the strips of grey T-shirt he’d carefully wrapped around the boy’s feet were now soaked through with fresh blood.

“Harper!” he cried, gently touching one poor foot. “What have you been doing?”

“Walking,” Harper snapped lightly. The captain’s touch had startled him, and he’d tried to yank his foot away, forgetting the shackles until they jerked him painfully to a stop.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Harper! You need to rest. You aggravated your cuts and probably kicked your temperature up a few degrees,” Dylan scolded.

“And you’re not my mother, Dylan. Look, I have no delusions that Felix is gonna let me sit in here and slowly recuperate. You saved me last time and I’m really grateful, but we both know it won’t work again. I’m a freakin’ slave, remember? Sooner, not later, someone will come back and drag me off again, and they aren’t gonna care if I’m not feeling tip-top. I decided to exercise what little freewill I still have and try it out first, while it was still _my_ idea and not an order from my _master_.”

As much as he hated it, Dylan could understand Harper’s reasoning, but that didn’t mean he was going to tell the kid that.

“But you still need to rest.”

“Boss, I’m being sent to the mines on Rellim! I don’t think they’re gonna wait for me to feel up to working!”

“We’re being sent to the mines, Harper,” Dylan told him, trying to give him a little comfort.

“Huh, what?”

“I’m going with you,” Dylan said. “I pulled every trick I could think of but Felix wouldn’t let us go. The only option I had left was to convince him to let me go with you. I’m a slave now, too. But at least I can help you, and once we’re off this ship and actually on the ground, we’ll find a way out of this mess.”

Dylan expected Harper to be surprised and maybe a little stunned. Instead, Harper exploded with anger.

“You did what!” he snarled. “You’re a freakin’ idiot!”

“Harper…” Dylan started, but the young man didn’t let him continue.

“You could have gotten yourself out of here, gone back to _Andromeda_ , told the others where we are! But no, you had to play the hero and sell yourself into slavery! Dylan, the mines of Rellim are a _death_ sentence! And now I not only have myself to worry about, but you, too!”

“Hey, I think I can take care of myself,” Dylan bristled. “Besides, the alternative was rotting in an Uber prison where I wouldn’t have done anyone any good.”

Harper ignored the last part of Dylan’s speech completely. “You don’t know one freakin’ thing about being a slave!” he spat.

Dylan was shocked by the depth of Harper’s anger and worried about the toll it was taking on his already depleted stamina. Harper’s skin was covered completely in a fine sheen of sweat, and he was shaking slightly as he fought to control his emotions, and yet, even as he cussed Dylan up and down, the boy’s eyes never met his own. That was really starting to bother Dylan.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed down there! And I’m in no condition to help you! Tell me, exactly what part of the High Guard anatomy is used for thinking?” Harper continued, but his voice was rapidly losing strength, and his breathing was labored.

“Harper, calm down!” Dylan told him firmly. “You’re right, I don’t know anything about being a slave. It’s not exactly something I’ve ever aspired to. But I do know that you willingly put yourself in this position to help me; it’s simply my turn to repay that favor, a favor I should never have asked of you in the first place. So we’re gonna stick together and help each other through this, okay? Don’t worry, we’ll find a way out somehow. Escape and stow away on a ship or something…”

Harper sighed. “Boss, you don’t escape from Rellim! Why do you think it’s the most feared place to begin with? People who get sent there never come back. Besides, most ships don’t even go there.”

“We’ll find a way, Harper, because I refuse to give up, and I intend to make sure you don’t either.”

Harper was too tired to argue anymore. “Boss, I’m not giving up. I’m just trying to adjust to my new situation and not get my hopes up too high, because it honestly wouldn’t take much more for me to just forget to keep breathing.”

Dylan didn’t know what to say to that so he didn’t speak at all. After a moment, Harper continued.

“Being a slave means surviving one day at a time, Dylan. One lousy, miserable, pain-filled day at a time. And yeah, you never give up hope that one day you might be free, but if you spend too much time thinking about that you can’t survive the reality of your crappy day-to-day life, and you die and get thrown aside like a piece of trash before you even get a chance to act on your dreams.”

“We’re not gonna die, Harper. I promise you that! We’re gonna get out of this and get back to _Andromeda_. I don’t know how or when yet, but we are going to do it!”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Dylan. Besides, some of us don’t have a whole lot to go back to on _Andromeda_ anymore…” Harper muttered, his head falling back against the wall and his eyes sliding closed. In the dim light, Dylan almost missed the single tear that leaked out and rolled down the boy’s cheek, getting lost in the short beard that now covered his chin. There was just something about that single tear, and the way Harper had said those words, and all the times in the past two days when Harper hadn’t…

“Harper, what’s wrong with your eyes?” Dylan asked suddenly, a horrible thought striking him.

The engineer winced but otherwise didn’t move or speak, and his eyes remained shut.

“Harper! What’s wrong? What did they do to your eyes?”

“Nothing, Boss,” Harper finally spoke, trying to sound like his old self. “They’re just a little dry and tired is all. Nothing to worry about; I’m good.”

The more he denied it, the more Dylan knew there was something terribly wrong. In the two days since Harper had been brought back to this cell more dead than alive, his eyes had yet to track Dylan’s movements, and the captain was now sure it wasn’t because of his high fever. He scooted closer to the boy, wishing he could lay a reassuring hand on his friend but not sure where to touch him that wouldn’t cause him even more pain.

“Don’t lie to me, Harper,” he said in his best captain’s voice. “Something’s wrong, now tell me what it is. Did he hit you too many times near your eyes? Are things blurry and hard to see?”

“Things are not blurry…” Harper said quietly, his voice catching slightly and his eyes opening.

“Well, what is it then?” Dylan asked gently. On a sudden impulse, he waved his hand in front of Harper’s face and sucked in a shocked breath when Harper didn’t even notice. “You can’t see at all, can you?” he whispered, his own voice almost breaking as he said the words.

“No, I can’t see at all!” Harper blurted. “I’m freakin’ blind! My kind and gracious master fried my eyes out with a couple of lasers! It’s not blurry, it’s not hard to see, it’s freakin’ pitch black, okay! That answer your questions, Boss? You happy now?”

Harper’s yells dissolved into an anguished sob, and more tears streamed down his face. The anger and stubbornness that had been holding him together for the last week washed away now that Dylan knew, and he crumbled.

“I’m blind, Boss!” he sobbed like a child, unable to take it anymore. “I’m no good for anything other than a slave now. The Uber broke my hands and my eyes, the two things I need most! Why Boss? Why did he have to do that? It’s not fair. What did I ever do to the universe to deserve this?”

Harper didn’t know it but he had managed to stare right at Dylan as he asked those gut-wrenching questions, his clear blue, now-empty eyes tearing at Dylan’s soul. Dylan thought of how much those eyes were used for, how much they said about the person behind them, and his heart broke as he realized how unfair it was that he could still see them but Harper couldn’t see _out_ of them. Dylan was almost grateful Harper _couldn’t_ see the tears that were now leaking down his own cheeks in sympathy for his friend’s pain and loss. He moved over to sit right next to the young man.

“Oh, Harper, I’m so sorry.” The words were lame, but they were all he had. As Harper tried to stifle his sobs, Dylan felt completely and utterly helpless. Touch and sound were the only connections Harper had now and because of an Uber with a penchant for pain, he couldn’t even give his friend a hug for support and comfort without hurting him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked after a moment as Harper’s cries diminished to hiccupping gasps for air.

Harper didn’t answer.

“Harper?” he said gently.

“I didn’t want you to know…” Harper whispered. The answer made no sense, but Dylan let it go. He had more important things to think about right now.

Harper was blind, crippled, and a slave.

And he couldn’t do anything about it.


	19. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

_David walked into the valley_   
_With a stone clutched in his hand._   
_He was only a boy, but he knew_   
_Someone must take a stand._

_There will always be a valley,_   
_Always mountains one must scale._   
_There will always be perilous waters_   
_Which someone must sail!_   
_. . ._

_Into darkness, into danger,_   
_Into storms that rip the night!_   
_Don’t give in, don’t give up,_   
_But give thanks for the glorious fight!_   
_. . ._

_Let the lightning strike!_   
_Let the flash of it shock you!_   
_Choke your fears away –_   
_Pull as tight as a wire._   
_Let the fever spike!_   
_Let the force of it rock you!_   
_We will have our day,_   
_Sailing into the fire!_

\- Nan Knighton, _The Scarlet Pimpernel_

*****

“Hey, Boss?”

There had been silence for a long, long time. Harper’s sobs had gradually died out, and the cell was quiet as he finally mourned his loss and then slowly regained his composure. Dylan’s thoughts had also been a thousand miles away. He was just starting to realize what a monumental task it was going to be keeping them both alive in the mines. And not just alive, but optimistic. He would now have to be the eyes for both of them, not something he’d ever in a million years considered, and something he was sure the Nietzscheans would make as difficult as possible.

“Yeah, Harper?” he answered, remembering the engineer had spoken. He glanced over at his friend. The kid really did look awful. Even though the tears had stopped some time ago, their tracks were still clearly visible through the grime and blood on his abused face, and he was shaking lightly from the pain of his injuries and the fever that refused to break.

“Were you telling me the truth when you said he didn’t hurt you?” he questioned.

“Yes, Harper. Unfair I know, but he didn’t do anything to me other than give me a pretty little earring to match yours.”

“Ah, you got one of those, too?” Harper said and attempted a smile. Dylan could tell he was trying to slip back on his mask of cocky, flippant, funny Harper and, as much as it hurt to see, Dylan decided to play along. Perhaps now that he’d cried, Harper desperately needed to laugh again.

“Yeah, although I’m not sure I like the style. Think I could get a refund?”

“I highly doubt it. Ubers are so unimaginative. They have no fashion sense; the design hasn’t changed for years.”

“I’m betting we can’t just take them off, right?” Dylan asked.

“Not unless you want to send massive electrical shocks coursing through your body. Take my word for it, it ain’t fun.”

They were silent for a minute more then Harper spoke again. “So, did you get the added accoutrements as well?” He wiggled his feet, causing the chains to clank on the metal deck plating.

“Ah, no,” Dylan said, again feeling guilty. Harper was blind and had so many injuries he could hardly move, and yet Felix felt it necessary to keep him in chains? While he was healthy and fit and free to move about? Dylan sighed.

“Hey, don’t feel bad!” Harper hurried to assure him. “I wouldn’t _wish_ them on ya!”

“Yeah, but it’s still not fair,” Dylan told him.

“Dylan, we’re slaves. Nothing is fair anymore.”

The words had no sooner left his lips than the door to the cell clicked open. Dylan watched as their three faithful boneheads marched in, but Harper simply bowed his head with a tired sigh.

“On your feet, slaves!”

Dylan stood up to avoid more trouble, but before he could turn and help Harper to his feet, the head Uber decided the boy wasn’t responding fast enough and grabbed the chain joining his wrists, yanking him up. Harper screamed in agony and surprise as his broken hands were jerked harshly.

“Hey!” Dylan started to object but, Harper cut him off with a hissed “Sh, Boss!” through his labored breathing.

Other than a little laughter at Harper’s expense, the Nietzscheans ignored the whole exchange.

“We’ll be at the planet in less than an hour and Commander Felix has ordered that you be ready,” the guard growled. He clicked a button on his belt and the shackles binding Harper’s wrists and ankles released, allowing one of the other guards to gather them up. Harper’s face registered his shock and confusion as he desperately tried to follow what was happening.

“Put these on; we’ll be back in twenty minutes to inspect you and take you to the airlock.”

A bundle was tossed harshly at each of them. Dylan caught his, perplexed, but Harper’s bounced off his chest and fell to the ground as the Ubers turned and stalked out of the cell yet again.

“What are we putting on?” Harper asked wearily.

Dylan shook open his bundle and found that he was holding new clothes. Although _clothes_ was a rather generous term. They looked more like ugly, old rejects from a pajama factory. The pants were dark brown and completely plain, made out of a heavy material and simply fastening with a draw string. The shirt was a lighter brown, wrinkled, and though long-sleeved, very thin. It was made to pull over one’s head and had a number painted on the front and the back: 6557.

He glanced at Harper’s bundle and saw the same thing, only his shirt was decorated with a 6558.

 _This day just keeps getting better and better_ , he thought.

“Looks like we get new clothes,” he told the young engineer, picking up his bundle as well. “Apparently, Felix doesn’t like our duds.”

“Ah, slave clothes. I should have guessed. Just peachy,” Harper muttered, rolling his sightless eyes. “Well, hand them over. I’d just as soon not give the guards any reason to be upset when they come back.”

Dylan glanced at his friend and hesitated. The chains might be gone for now, but his hands were still pretty useless and he was rather shaky on his feet, not to mention the fact that he couldn’t see anything.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to help you?” he asked.

“Boss, I’m blind, not an idiot. I can still dress myself,” Harper snapped.

“I know!” Dylan said hastily, “I was just worried about your hands and all…”

“I’ll be fine. Now give me the clothes and turn around.”

With a sigh, Dylan obeyed, handing over the garments and turning around to dress himself. He had to admit the temptation was great to just turn back and see what else Felix had done to his friend, but that felt sneaky and backhanded, especially since he would be taking advantage of Harper’s blindness. So instead, he just dressed quickly and tried to ignore the harsh breathing and muffled gasps of pain that came from behind him as Harper struggled into his own new set of clothes.

Dylan was done in minutes, and he glanced at his new clothes with distaste. They were loose and baggy and made him feel like a clown. The pants were almost too short to be called pants, stopping mid-calf. His boots made up the difference and covered his skin, but Harper had no boots. They’d been taken away the very first day and no replacements had been brought.

“Harper,” he called without turning around. “Would you like my boots? You need to protect your feet so they don’t get more cut up.”

“Boss,” he heard Harper’s nasal voice and it almost sounded like he was grinning, even though he was still breathing hard. “What size boot do you wear?”

“Twelve. Why?”

Harper actually laughed. “I’m gonna be tripping over my feet enough as it is; I don’t need five-size-too-big shoes helping me out! Thanks, but no thanks. You keep ‘em. Besides, I didn’t get my first pair of shoes until I was seventeen. My feet will get used to being barefoot again really quick.”

“We could ask for your boots back.”

Harper snorted. “You just don’t get this slave thing yet, do you…” His voice trailed off as he resumed his struggle to get dressed. Finally, he told Dylan he could turn around.

Dylan liked seeing Harper in the baggy slave clothes even less than he did himself. On the engineer, they hung loosely off his bony frame and stopped several inches short of his ankles, exposing the makeshift bandages Dylan had wrapped around his shins. They somehow made him look at least ten years younger, which struck Dylan as really not such a good thing in a slave camp. Harper paid them no mind, however. He was struggling with something on his old clothes, hissing in pain and swearing strongly in frustration.

“What’s wrong, Harper?” Dylan asked, moving to his side. It was strange to see Harper working on something and yet see his eyes wandering aimlessly.

“Your new duds have pockets?” Harper asked by way of answering.

“No, why?”

Then Dylan saw what he was struggling with: his lucky rabbit’s foot. He was trying to unhook it from his old belt loop with fingers that didn’t work anymore. The captain couldn’t ever remember a time when he’d seen the engineer without it. He had no idea where Harper had got it, but it must be important to him. Of course the boy wouldn’t want to leave it behind now.

“Here, let me get it, Harper. You have any string or wire in your old clothes? We could tie it around your neck and keep it hidden under your shirt.”

“Got a bit of synthetic cording that might work,” Harper mumbled thoughtfully. “Try the left pocket.”

Dylan found the cording and tied the rabbit’s foot to it, creating an impromptu necklace.

He went to put in over Harper’s head, but the engineer stopped him. “Would you keep it for me?” he asked in a quiet voice, reminding the captain of exactly how close his friend still was to a complete breakdown.

“Harper, why?”

“Because I…well…let’s just say the way slave discipline runs, there’s a pretty good chance they’d find it on me, but I get the feeling they might not get quite so rough with you.”

“But-”

“Boss, please, just take it?” Harper begged, gesturing with his head to the sound of approaching feet.

“Okay.”

Dylan placed the cord around his neck and tucked the precious item under his shirt as the door opened yet again and their three favorite people in all the universe strode back in.

“Punctual…” Harper murmured and then winced as a small shock ran through him from his slave tag. He really needed to remember that Nietzscheans weren’t bred for sarcasm.

“Keep your mouth shut, slave,” one guard said. He walked up to Harper and roughly grabbed his hands, clapping the manacles around his bruised wrists once more. Dylan watched as Harper physically bit on his lip to keep from crying out.

“Is that really necessary?” Dylan demanded, stepping toward Harper. He was stopped by a light shock from his own slave tag.

“I said mouths shut!” the Uber growled.

It rankled, but Dylan obeyed, for his and especially Harper’s sake. As long at the guard held the device that activated their slave tags, Dylan would have to bite his tongue. Fuming, he watched as shackles were reattached to his friend’s ankles as well. These chains were a bit longer than the last set Harper had been given, indicating that they expected the boy to move more, but also sadly showing that they were intended to be rather permanent. It was just another way for Felix to show who was really in control.

“Don’t look so disappointed, _Captain_ ,” one of the guards laughed. “We’ve got a set for you, too.”

True enough, Dylan was soon sporting his very own, shiny pair of shackles.

“And one last thing before we’re ready to go,” the guard said, sounding way, way too chipper as he approached Harper once more.

From inside his jacket he produced a flat, round, metal collar which he clicked into place around Harper’s neck, locking it with the same control pad that their slave tags were tied to. It was loose enough to move around but too small to slide over the engineer’s head.

“A special present from Commander Felix for the little one, to help him stay where he belongs this time,” the Uber laughed. As Harper was shoved toward him, Dylan realized there were words etched into the collar. Blood boiling, he read them.

_I am a runaway slave. If found, return to Gaius Felix._

If it wasn’t happening to Harper, Dylan would have rolled his eyes. _Talk about overkill._ Unfortunately, Felix’s love of theatrics meant Harper was now saddled with an embarrassing and rather heavy looking piece of metal around his neck, one that looked like it was supposed to be a permanent fixture.

Harper, however, saved him the trouble and rolled his own eyes. “Slavery stinks, don’t it,” he muttered.

Dylan snorted softly in agreement. What else needed to be said?

Then the two were shoved roughly from the cell and into the corridor beyond, Harper wincing with each step and Dylan doing his best to help guide him along the way.


	20. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

_Yeah, I know it hurts, yeah I know you’re scared  
Walkin’ down the road that leads to who knows where.  
Don’t you hang your head, don’t you give up yet,  
When courage starts to disappear, I will be right here._

_Everybody cries, everybody bleeds  
No one ever said that life’s an easy thing.  
That’s the beauty of it, when you lose your way  
Close your eyes, and go to sleep  
Wake up to another day._

_When your world breaks down  
And the voices tell you turn around.  
When your dreams give out,  
I will carry you, carry you.  
When the stars go blind  
And the darkness starts to flood your eyes  
When you’re fallin’ behind,  
I will carry you._

\- Clay Aiken

*****

Beside Dylan, Harper stumbled and went down in the dirt, and the captain hurried to grab his arm and pull him back up before he could get dragged again; and before the Uber behind them had a chance to bring out his riding crop once more. 

It had been a very, very long day - one of the longest days of Dylan’s life. 

It was dark when they arrived on the planet. Dylan and Harper had been taken from the ship and thrown in a black, dungeon-like stone cell for the night. The moment their Nietzschean guards were gone, Harper had literally collapsed with pain and exhaustion, both physical and mental. He barely managed to choke down a little of the moldy bread and stale water that was left for them before he fell into a restless, fevered sleep.

Worried, but knowing there was nothing he could do, Dylan drifted to sleep as well.

Morning had come quickly and harshly. They were kicked awake and dragged from the cell, giving Dylan his first real look at where they were. It had been too dark and he’d been too preoccupied with helping Harper the night before, but now that the sun was shining, Dylan took the moment to look around.

It was a docking town, full of ships, with Nietzscheans and humans milling around. But what had struck Dylan as odd was the conflicting levels of technology he could see. The town itself resembled the pictures he’d seen of Ancient Earth around the 1940’s, Old Earth Calendar, but at the same time, the streets were filled with horse drawn carts and people either on foot or riding bicycles.

Moments later, reality had crashed down around him again and he was forced to leave the pondering for later. He and Harper were pulled over to a convoy of what looked like supply wagons and their hands were attached to the back of the last wagon by light chains fixed to their wrist shackles. Nietzschean guards rode on horseback with the wagon train, but apparently slaves had to walk.

And walk they did.

They walked for miles and hours while the sun beat mercilessly down. Not even an hour out from the city, Dylan sadly noticed that Harper was leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind him on the dusty, gravel road as he stumbled along. The captain also thought it particularly cruel that he was being pulled along by his abused hands. They weren’t going exceptionally fast and Harper did his best to keep up and not trip on the deep ruts in the road and the chains around his feet that he couldn’t see, but his broken hands were still constantly being tugged forward, the shackles rubbing and jarring painfully. Harper didn’t utter a complaint, however, and that itself told Dylan exactly how much he hurt. He walked with his head bowed and his sightless eyes closed, his face tight with the constant struggle to hide the pain and fever that Dylan knew radiated from his whole body.

So, Dylan talked.

He whispered softly at first, afraid of the response from their guards to idle chatter, but his voice grew in strength as he soon realized they could care less what he said as long as he kept moving and didn’t help Harper too much. Blows from the riding crop rained down on both of their backs whenever Harper would stumble and fall or Dylan would try to physically guide him along, but apparently the Uber guard behind them was too busy with his own thoughts to care if they were quiet. 

So Dylan tried to fill in the silence and help distract Harper from his pain the only way he could. As the long hours crawled by mind-numbingly slow, Dylan talked them away, and even though he gave little indication of having heard, Dylan knew his young friend was listening. 

He told Harper about the city they were slowly leaving behind in the distance and the sparkling ocean that stretched out beyond that. He described the flat, lush farmlands they passed through, green and gold fields filled with crops, some familiar, some alien. He told Harper about the people they passed: ordinary, every-day humans who looked as though they could have come straight from the pages of Earth’s history books as they worked the fields with animals and by hand. However, he _didn’t_ tell Harper of the thin clothes they wore and the gaunt, haunted expressions on their faces. He didn’t mention how they bowed their heads in submission as the Nietzscheans and their wagons passed by, or the pitying, sorrowful looks they threw his and Harper’s way.

As the day wore on, they continued to pass through farmlands and small villages. They also waded through several rivers and streams and moved through long empty meadows and plains covered in grass and brush and, strangely, often littered with broken, crashed ships and odd, mangled machinery that stuck up from the ground like weathered bones. 

Dylan described all these things to Harper even as his own mind filled up with questions. For the most dreaded mining planet in Dragan space, Rellim was sure picturesque. Most slave planets, Earth included, had been reduced by the Dragans over the centuries of occupation to grim, slag heaps with nothing of beauty left. Rellim, if you could disregard the Nietzscheans leading them around in chains and the worn look of the inhabitants, appeared almost as an untouched paradise. The scenery was slightly intoxicating; he could almost lose himself in it and forget about the cruelty of the Nietzscheans, but not quite. All he needed for a reality check was a simple glance at the young man trudging silently beside him, locked in his own personal darkness that no lovely scenery could penetrate, and he was reminded that all the beauty in the world couldn’t cover up the ugliness of the Dragans. 

He was also confused. The broken ships and machinery spoke of technology, yet they were being dragged behind a horse-drawn wagon and forced to march to their destination. Except for those broken fragments, the moment they had left the city gates, all signs of modern technology had vanished. None of it made any sense, but for now he kept his questions to himself.

The walking had continued, hour after hour, with never a break or a slack in the pace. He could tell they were headed in the direction of the blue-green mountains towering in the distance, but, as if they were taunting them, they never seemed to get any closer. Eventually, even Dylan began to tire and his words had trailed off, now only speaking to offer verbal guidance for his friend to help him avoid the pitfalls of the trail that he couldn’t see. 

It hadn’t helped much. 

By the time evening rolled around, Harper was so far beyond hurt and sick and exhausted that he could have been walking on flat ground and he still would have stumbled. Every time he’d gone down, it had taken him longer to find his feet again, but that didn’t mean the wagon they were attached to slowed in the least. Dylan had quickly thrown Harper’s “not touching” rule out the window in the effort to keep the boy from being savagely dragged behind the wagon by his ruined hands.

Yes, Dylan thought as he once again pulled Harper back to his feet in the growing gloom of twilight, _it has been a very, very long day_.

“Stop! First camp here!”

The throaty voice of the Nietzschean wagon master floated back down the line to Dylan and Harper’s position. As soon as their wagon lurched to a stop, Harper simply sank to his knees in the dirt.

“Harper?” Dylan asked softly, crouching down beside him. “You okay?”

No answer.

“Come on, Harper, stay with me here,” Dylan urged, ignoring his own exhaustion and lightly touching his friend’s arm. 

Head still bowed, Harper finally nodded.

“Good. Because I have it from a reliable source that I’m not cut out for this kinda thing. I can’t do this by myself, remember.” 

He still said nothing, but a miniscule, weary smile tugged at the corners of Harper’s mouth. Dylan smiled back, forgetting he couldn’t see it.

Silence descended for a while as they sat in the dirt of the road, still chained to back of the wagon and apparently forgotten for the moment. 

“Boss?” Harper asked after several minutes, his voice weak and shaky.

“Yeah?”

“Next time I stow away, just shoot me.”

The comment was so unexpected and out of the blue, Dylan couldn’t help but laugh out loud. Harper never ceased to amaze him. Teetering consistently on the edge of the “mostly dead” category, he somehow managed to hold on to that snarky attitude and sense of humor and crack a joke.

“I try not to shoot crewmembers, Harper,” Dylan teased gently. “It tends to look bad on my record.”

“Well, just let Beka do it then. I’m sure she won’t mind. I mean we did lose her ship.”

Dylan laughed again and Harper joined with his own tired smile, but it quickly slid from his face.

“Do you think they’re looking for us?” he asked quietly, almost desperately.

“I’m sure of it,” Dylan told him firmly. “If I know Beka, she’s probably tearing up the universe right now, trying to find her engineer, Trance and Rommie hot on her heels. We just have to hold out until they get here.”

Harper waited a long time before replying. When he did it was in a barely audible voice. “I’m not sure I can last that long…”

“Yes, you can, Harper,” Dylan said quickly, placing a hand on the young man’s knee. “You’ve survived everything the universe has thrown at you; you can survive this as well. And I’ll be right here to help you. You just have to promise me you won’t give up. Okay, Harper? Promise me that!”

Harper sighed, but nodded. “All right, Boss, I promise.”

“So, what are they doing?” the engineer asked after a few minutes.

“What are who doing?” Dylan replied, confused.

“The Ubers. What are they doing now that we’ve stopped? I can hear ‘em moving around, but I can’t tell what they’re doing.”

“Oh,” Dylan said, realizing that Harper wanted him to continue describing their surroundings. “They’re setting up camp. They’ve got a fire going and they’re putting up tents and tending to the horses. We’re the only slaves chained to a wagon and being forced to march, but I don’t think we’re the only slaves here. There’s a woman cooking dinner and at least three other human men roaming around. Then again, I’m not sure, they aren’t dressed like us.”

“Personal slaves,” Harper explained tiredly. “Their masters probably brought them along to do the work of the trip. They wouldn’t be dressed like prisoners, not if they work in the Ubers’ homes. On Earth, if the slavers grabbed you, you’d pray to become a personal slave. It’s degrading and humiliating, but at least it meant you’d probably get fed and clothed.”

Dylan listened sadly, knowing Harper’s words were probably laced with personal experience; if not his own, at least from others he had known. It seemed the stress, the pain, and the never-ending darkness had loosened the walls on Harper’s carefully hidden memories and his tongue. Every day, Dylan was learning more about the young friend he thought he’d known.

“Never been camping before,” Harper continued in his tired voice, attempting to change the subject with a small smile. “What’s our spot look like?”

Dylan felt something tug at his heart. It was good that Harper was adjusting, but at the same time it killed the captain to see him accepting his blindness so quickly. The quiet requests for descriptions made while Harper’s clear, blue eyes stared vacantly ahead filled him with such sadness it was hard to keep it out of his voice as he gave Harper the information he wanted.

“Well, we’re in a small grove of trees. They look kind of like the quaking aspens that used to grow in the mountains on Earth, but their leaves are red. And there’s a stream just up ahead. I think that’s probably why we stopped here, for the water.”

“Yeah, I can hear it just a little,” Harper said. He listened for a moment more, trying to get his other senses to start picking up the slack and filling in the hole left by his useless eyes. “If I listen really hard, I can hear the breeze blowing the leaves on the trees, too.”

Dylan didn’t get to finish verbally painting the camp for Harper since the Nietzscheans finally seemed to remember their prisoners. One of the guards came striding over, his face a blank mask.

“Get up,” he ordered as he undid the chains tying them to the wagon. Dylan obeyed silently, then turned and helped Harper back up on his torn and bloody feet. The conversation had distracted him, probably Harper’s intention all along, but as he helped the kid up once more, he again realized just how bad of shape Harper was in. The heat literally poured off his skin, and he was pale and shaking.

The Niet used the chains as a leash and pulled them over to a metal post that had been pounded into the ground near where the stock was tethered for the night. He undid the leading chains from their wrist shackles and told them to sit down. The long chains were then attached to the pole at one end and their ankle shackles at the other, effectively tethering them just like the horses.

From his jacket he pulled two dry traveler’s cakes and a plastic water bottle that he tossed at their feet. A thin blanket followed and then he turned around dismissively.

“Enjoy your night,” he called with a leering grin as he walked away.

“Hope a snake bites you,” Dylan said at his back when he was out of earshot.

Harper smiled for real. “Why, Boss, I’ve had a bad influence on you!”

“Nah. You’re just getting a glimpse of Dylan as opposed to Captain Hunt. I was a regular pain in the posterior before the High Guard tried to weed it out of me.”

“They didn’t do a very good job,” Harper muttered, and Dylan laughed with him. All things considered, what else could they do; they were at the point of laugh or fall apart.

Getting as comfortable as they could, they ate their meager dinner in silence while the night descended with a chill and the Ubers settled around their warm fire, laughing and telling jokes. As Harper once again succumbed to exhaustion and fever, Dylan tucked the blanket around him and continued his observations. The human slaves had retreated from their masters, forming their own circle away from the fire while they ate their meals and talked softly. Apparently, they were trusted enough or scared enough not to need chains or a leash. As he watched, Dylan couldn’t help but notice that one of them, an older man with wild gray hair, kept glancing his and Harper’s way. Finally, he seemed to come to some sort of decision and rose, approaching one of the Niets with a groveling bow. 

Dylan tensed, not sure this was going to be good for anyone, but the slave simply backed away after a few moments of hushed conversation with his master and disappeared in the direction of the stream.

Eventually, the exhausting day caught up with him, and he forgot all about the other slave as his eyes drifted shut. Consequently, he was startled when a hand touched his arm, jerking him from his deep sleep.

“Sorry! Calm down, my friend,” a soothing, soft voice said when Dylan jumped slightly. 

Dylan blinked his eyes a few times to clear the sleep from them and finally managed to focus on the gentle face of the grey-haired slave kneeling before him, a hand on his shoulder. Beside him, he noticed that Harper didn’t even stir, his sleep deep from fever and exhaustion, and his breathing shallow and labored.

“What do you want?” Dylan asked grumpily. He had never been the most pleasant person to wake up, especially when he woke up to remember that he was chained up as a slave. “The Nietzscheans make a rule against sleeping now, too?”

The man actually smiled, his brown eyes twinkling faintly in his pale face. 

“No. I’m not here at the request of my master, or any of the others. I’m here of my own accord; to help you.”

“Help us?” Dylan asked, sitting up straighter, fully awake now. “You mean help us get out of here?”

The man shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry but no. I have no way to do that.” He gestured pointedly to the chains that bound the two friends. “And even if I did have the means to set you free,” he continued quietly, “I wouldn’t. Not here. There’s nowhere to run. They would find you again in minutes, and I doubt your young friend would survive the punishment.”

“Well, if you’re not gonna get us out of here, exactly what kind of help are you offering? We hardly need a subscription to _Joe’s Outdoor Equipment_ right now,” Dylan grumbled, running a tired hand over his face and through his hair.

The slave shifted slightly and for the first time Dylan noticed the pail of water beside him and the dumpy, brown bag he carried. 

“The boy is injured and ill, is he not?” the man asked.

“Yes,” Dylan agreed reluctantly, still not sure where this was going.

“In another place, a lifetime ago, I was a physician,” the slave explained. “A pediatrician, to be precise. When he’s in a pleasant mood, my master sometimes provides me with limited medical supplies and allows me to tend to my fellow slaves. I convinced him the boy wouldn’t last the trip to the mines in his current condition, and he’s given me permission to aid your friend; but sadly only a little.”

 _Finally, some good news!_ Dylan’s mind screamed.

“May, I?” the ex-doctor asked, gesturing toward Harper’s sweaty, sleeping form.

“Yes, of course!” Dylan answered quickly.

The man moved to Harper’s other side, sadly noting the slave collar.

“He’s been a slave before, I see. And he must have made his master exceptionally mad. I have only ever seen one other slave fixed with a collar like this,” he said, frowning as he placed a cool hand against Harper’s hot forehead. “But I somehow gather you’re new to the slave experience,” he added, nodding to Dylan. As he spoke, he worked quietly, gently examining Harper’s face, hands, and feet.

“Yes, to both,” Dylan replied. “Captain Dylan Hunt of the _Andromeda Ascendant_ ,” he said extending his hand in greeting, despite the shackles. The man looked startled by the offer, but eventually reached out and shook his hand.

“Bartholomew Kesler, one time doctor and now full time slave. It has been a _long_ time since someone offered to shake my hand,” he explained. Neither man asked for the story behind how they ended up here, on this planet, as slaves. It was as if there was some unspoken agreement to leave the past where it should be, in the past. “And who is your friend?”

“My engineer, Seamus Harper.”

“A very sick engineer,” Bartholomew said, his face clearly worried. “These wounds are painful and crippling, but I see nothing here to cause the fever I’m feeling.”

“I know he has other injuries, more serious ones, but he’s refused to let me look at them or even touch him.”

The doctor sighed. “We should wake him up,” he said reluctantly.

“Why?” Dylan whispered. “He hasn’t had much sleep lately. I hate to wake him. Can’t you just keep examining him as he sleeps? He’d probably sleep through the whole thing.”

“Not likely,” Bartholomew said with a wry smile. “If he really has spent time as a slave before, the moment I started tugging at his clothes to tend his injuries, he’ll be fully awake and probably terrified. Besides, I must ask some questions that only he can answer.”

“Such as?” Dylan prompted, still not wanting to rouse his sleeping friend.

The other man sighed again and reached into his bag, withdrawing three hypos. “I have here a very, very small batch of nanobots,” he said, holding up the first hypo. “I’m not even supposed to have it. My master threw the hypo away as empty, but I scrounged it and saved it. The dose is so small, however, that it cannot even begin to heal the boy’s injuries. It might be of help to your young friend’s crippled hands, however. Applied directly to one of the injured hands, it could heal it enough to give him back limited mobility. Sadly, I don’t have enough to fix both of them, so he’ll have to choose. I wouldn’t even presume to make that decision for him.”

He set the medication down carefully on the blanket then continued explaining, holding up the other two hypos. “I also have a small dose of both a fever reducer and an antibiotic. It should be enough to break his fever and help kill the infection I’m guessing is the underlying cause of his sickness, but unless the wounds are thoroughly cleaned it won’t do him much good; hence, the rags and the water. Now, I might be something of a doctor but I’m betting your friend would be far from comfortable with me doing that. As much as he may deny it, he would probably still rather have you be the one to take on that task. So, after we wake him and I give him the injections and tend to his hands and feet, I will leave you with the water and withdraw to let you clean and care for his other injuries.”

Seeing the wisdom in his words, Dylan nodded.

“Harper,” he called softly, “Harper, you gotta wake up for a minute.”

Harper moaned in his sleep but didn’t wake up. Dylan wished he could shake him lightly but knew that would hurt him more.

“Come on, Harper. Up and at ‘em.”

Harper groaned a little louder this time. “’M up, Beka. Jus’ give me five more minutes…” he slurred incoherently, not waking at all.

“His wife?” the doctor asked with an amused grin.

“First captain,” Dylan replied. “It’s a long story.” Not bothering to explain, he continued urging Harper into the land of the living. “I know you’re tired and hurt, but you’ve gotta wake up for just a bit so we can help you, Harper,” he coaxed.

Finally, Harper started to stir. He moaned a few more times and then his fevered eyes slid open.

“Lights, Rommie,” he muttered, forgetting where he was. “And why do I feel like I got plastered by a freakin’ transport?”

“Harper, Rommie’s not here,” Dylan reminded him with a heavy heart. “And I can’t turn the lights back up.”

Dylan knew by the expression on his face exactly when all the memories of the last week crashed into him. 

“Crap,” he cursed quietly, closing his eyes again.

“Harper,” Dylan went on quickly. “There’s someone here with a few medical supplies that can help you, but you’re gonna have to sit up.”

The engineer didn’t reply, his face scrunched up tightly.

“Harper,” Dylan said again, more sternly.

“Yeah, I know, Boss. Just give me a second, okay? I’m still not used to waking up to the dark…”

Bartholomew watched the exchange with confusion. “He can’t see?” he finally asked.

“No,” Dylan said shortly.

“For how long?” the doctor asked.

“Three whole freakin’ days,” Harper told him bitterly. “And who the heck are you?”

Their chains rattling sharply, Dylan helped the young man painfully sit up while Bartholomew introduced himself.

“And you can help me?” Harper said skeptically. “The Ubers will let ya do that?”

“A little,” the other slave told him kindly.

“Can you fix my eyes?” the young man asked after a moment, his voice very quiet.

The doctor took a deep breath. “No,” he said regretfully, and Dylan had to look away. “But I can fix other things.” He quickly explained about the fever reducer and antibiotics, and Harper gave his consent to the injection, starting to feel the effects almost immediately after he heard the hiss from the hypo in his neck.

“Thanks,” he said gratefully.

“I’m glad I could help you, even a little bit. Now let me have a look at these feet.”

The doctor took Harper’s poor, abused feet and gently peeled Dylan’s blood-crusted, makeshift bandages off, tisking under his breath and shaking his head. The lacerations from the wires had been irritated horribly and more cuts had been added to them from the sharp gravel Harper had been forced to walk across all day long. The man cleaned them carefully and re-bandaged them, Harper bearing it all in silence.

“Now, let’s check those hands.”

“Do you have to?” Harper whined, remembering the agony the last time they were bandaged.

“I’ll be as careful as I can,” Bartholomew assured him. With a sigh, Harper held out his broken hands and the doctor gently unwrapped them. He carefully washed the holes, examining the bones and tendons while he worked and explaining the choice to Harper, who listened with gritted teeth.

Harper was torn as he absorbed the doctor’s words. The man had nanobots that could possibly cure his hands but only enough for one of them, and he had to choose which one. Harper never thought the day would come that he’d be forced to choose which hand had to remain crippled!

“Whichever hand you choose, I doubt the recovery will be complete,” Bartholomew’s voice reached through Harper’s thoughts and the engineer realized he was speaking to him again. “The damage is too great for the small amount of medicine I have, and the injuries are too old. They’ve already started to heal incorrectly. The injection will probably return most mobility to the affected limb, but it will likely still remain painful and stiff.”

Harper closed his eyes to think even though it made no difference now; old habits die hard. His left hand was by far the most damaged, the fingers stiff and unresponsive and the bones and nerves a mess. If he chose the left hand, he would probably get limited mobility in both hands once they healed. However, he was right handed. He relied on that hand far more than the other. If he chose the right hand, it was possible the nanobots could heal it almost completely since the damage was less to begin with, Felix’s spike having mercifully missed most of the bones and tendons as it was driven in. He would be left with one useless hand but one mostly functional hand as well. 

He made his decision.

“The right hand,” he told the other man firmly. He winced as he felt the painful pressure of the hypo on the back of his hand and then it was done. Bartholomew carefully wrapped both of his hands back up in clean bandages, and then Harper heard him replacing his supplies in his bag.

“Thanks again, Doc,” Harper said, already feeling slightly better. He was still tired and sore beyond anything he’d ever known, the ex-doctor having nothing to give him for pain relief, but he could feel his fever dropping and that was no small blessing.

“You’re welcome, my friend. Now, I’m going to leave, but your captain is going to tend to the wounds that we both know you’re hiding under that shirt.”

“Hey, no way!” Harper said forcefully, his head jerking up with anger, having been caught off-guard by the statement.

“Mr. Harper, I’ve just given you the only dose of antibiotics I have. It will be enough to slowly fight your infection, but it won’t do you a bit of good if the wounds stay the way they are. You are a slave now, and I know you’re familiar with the implications of that. You’re in no position to refuse help when it’s offered because you know it won’t be offered again. Pride is a grand thing but slaves have no room for pride; it only gets them killed. Now, good night, Dylan, Harper. I have duties I have no choice but to attend to.”

The other slave’s words struck painfully at memories Harper would have liked to ignore forever. They also rang with truth. He hated it, oh he hated it, but what the man had said was true.

“Should we get this over with?” Dylan asked him, knowing Harper was upset but determined not to let him squirm his way out this time. 

Harper sighed in defeat. “Yeah, sure, whatever…” He reached for the edge of the thin shirt he wore, struggling to pull it over his head, having to tug it away from where it had stuck to the skin of his back. He heard Dylan drag the bucket of water closer, and then the captain sucked in a sharp breath and there was utter silence.

Dylan stared in open shock at the sight before him, completely speechless. The wounds from a whip lay red, raw, and bloody across Harper’s back, more marks than he could count. They oozed yellow puss and the heat that radiated from the infection was alarming. Dylan’s blood boiled. The monster had whipped him! On top of everything else he’d done to the boy, he’d also whipped him, and that wasn’t all. The new injuries ran across layer upon layer of stripes, some scars old and white with age, others newer and still puckered and tinged with red. As if that weren’t enough, his friend’s back also bore scars from what looked like knife wounds and even some burns. 

A collection like this would have taken years; Dylan had never seen anything like it and both the sight and the implications of it sickened him. Hot, angry tears filled his eyes, but he wouldn’t let them fall. Harper would never want to be pitied, even if he couldn’t see it. Still, Dylan was frozen by the horrible image, unable to move, the dripping cloth forgotten in his hand.

Harper kept his head bowed as he turned his back to Dylan. He could feel the thin fabric of his shirt bunched around his wrists where it was stopped by the ever present manacles, but the rest of his upper body and arms were bare, and his skin bristled slightly against the chill in the night air. The metal slave collar was heavy and cold against his naked skin as he waited, but no sound or movement from Dylan penetrated his dark world. Harper knew what was happening: he’d dreaded this day since the moment he set foot on the _Andromeda_. In a way, it was a blessing to have his secrets revealed now, in this way; he was too tired and in pain to care.

“Dylan,” Harper said softly without lifting his head, “You can touch me. It’s okay. I’m not gonna yell at ya this time.”

His words seemed to break the spell that had settled over Dylan. The captain uttered a small curse, and then Harper heard the rattle of Dylan’s own chains and felt the soft movement of a cloth on his back, the water both cooling and stinging at the same time. Even though the touch was extremely gentle, Harper couldn’t stop a sudden, sharp intake of breath as the movement caused the injuries to flare back to life.

Dylan swore again.

“Harper, what happened?” Dylan’s voice asked after a moment, and Harper knew he wasn’t referring to the wounds he was currently tending.

“Earth happened,” he said tiredly, “Almost twenty years of it.”

Dylan continued speaking while he worked as gently and as quickly as he possibly could to clean the dirt, dried blood, and puss from the lacerations on his friend’s back.

“How long were you a slave?” the captain inquired quietly, figuring that was how Harper got his collection of scars and now seriously wondering if Harper had been a slave most of his life.

“About a year and a half,” Harper answered through pain-gritted teeth.

“But these marks are…” Dylan’s voice trailed off, and Harper realized he still didn’t understand. He had no frame of reference to grasp the concept of a way of life that allowed this kind of continuous pain, and his eternal optimism refused to believe it.

Harper sighed tiredly. “When I was seven I stole half a loaf of bread from a dumpster outside the Uber barracks. There was no food in the shack; Dad had been sick for weeks, and my baby sister was dying because none of us had eaten for days and Mom had nothing left to nurse her with. So I went out and stole the bread to keep us alive, only I got caught. And stealing stale, moldy bread from the trash was such a heinous crime I had to be punished accordingly. The Ubers strung me up to a pole in the middle of the ghetto so everyone could watch, and I was given fourteen lashes, two for every year I’d dared to stay alive. Then they cut me down, broke my arm, and sent me home; my first taste of Nietzschean justice. Between that event and when Beka pulled me off that rock, I did a lot of things that carried much heftier penalties than stealing half a loaf of bread.”

Harper finished speaking and Dylan had nothing to say in return. A story like that would have left him struggling for words at any time, but to hear it told in Harper’s pain-filled voice while he was chained to a post with him and trying to clean the horrible wounds on Harper’s bruised and scarred back left Dylan once again speechless. All he could do was finish the awful task in silence and try to find a place in his mind for the terrible things he’d just learned and seen.

“I’m hurrying,” the captain assured when Harper couldn’t hold in a hiss of pain. “I’m sorry I’m hurting you more, but this has to be done. I’m almost finished with your back.”

Dylan cleaned the last few inches of Harper’s back and shoulders, and then moved on to his arms. There were deep rope burns around both forearms and healing bruises splashed up and down both of them, but very few open wounds he needed to clean up. He also washed the damaged skin around the engineer’s dataport, noting that the deep burn had thankfully already started heal. It would leave a nasty scar, however.

“All right, now turn around and let me look at your chest,” Dylan ordered.

Harper complied wearily and Dylan got another shock.

Harper’s chest and stomach were also kaleidoscopes of healing bruises and electric shock burns, but the horrifying injury that angered him most lay right in the center, just below the clavicle bones. Branded into the boy’s chest in two inch high letters that oozed and ran was the word _servi_ , written in English characters.

“You would have thought the slave tag and collar were enough, wouldn’t you? But Felix was never one to do a job halfway,” Harper spoke, sensing what was drawing Dylan’s attention. “At least he covered the old brand with the new one, even if the new one is ten times bigger.”

Still, Dylan said nothing, his thoughts recalling words Felix had thrown out so dismissively in their short conversation. _Furthermore, he is my slave. I bought him, I **marked** him, I own him!_ Now he knew with dreadful clarity exactly what the Niet had meant.

When Dylan remained silent, Harper ducked his head again in shame. “It’s Latin for slave,” he explained softly, embarrassed. “If you haven’t noticed, Felix has a thing for the classics; Ancient Rome and Greece and all that stuff. I’m just glad he decided to stick it on my chest instead of on my forehead like they used to do with runaways a lot back then. And don’t worry if it don’t clean up nice; the last one took months to heal.”

Harper shivered in the cold and Dylan saw his flesh prickle, reminding him of his unfinished task. He rinsed the rag out in the cool water and brought it to Harper’s chest, washing the horrible word clean but more infection oozed out as soon as he was done.

“Our wonderful Commander Felix really needs to get some new hobbies, if you ask me,” Dylan said angrily, washing the rest of Harper’s injuries. “I mean, runaway slaves in Roman times were also crucified. What’s he gonna do next, start stringing…”

The captain’s words trailed off as a realization so awful it took his breath away struck him. An unassuming wooden post stuck in the floor flashed through his mind, blood smeared at its base, another beam lying innocently behind it. The sound of Harper’s agonized screams jarring the stillness of his cell, and then almost three days of horrible silence. The rope burns on his forearms, the unexplainable wounds on the young man’s hands and feet…

“Oh… Oh, Harper, he didn’t…” 

Dylan couldn’t get the sentence out but he didn’t have to. Harper’s reaction to the word was confirmation enough.

“Harper, I’m so, so sorry.”

“I thought I was gonna die,” Harper admitted, struggling with the words. “I mean, I’d seen it happen before, many times. I even knew that’s what would be waiting for me if I ever managed to get caught by him again, but I never _really_ thought it could happen to me. Then suddenly it was, and I was up there on that cross, and I was so scared and tired and hurt. Then he came in and told me it was all just a little joke; that the six inch nails sticking through my hands were just for fun, and he pulled me down, yanked them out, and blinded me instead.”

Harper’s words were raw and naked, filled with more emotion and honesty than Dylan had ever heard him express, and the rage that had been boiling near the surface since this whole insane experience started finally ran over.

Forgetting that they were still in chains, tethered to a pole, forgetting that they were sitting in the dirt outside, waiting for morning to come to resume a forced march to a prison camp, forgetting even that he should keep his voice down, Dylan squared his shoulders and looked straight at his young friend. 

“Harper, I don’t know when and I don’t know how, but I promise you, some day he will pay for what he did, even if I have to hunt him down myself.”

Harper simply shrugged sadly. “Thanks, but it really doesn’t matter now; it’s all over and done with anyway.” He smiled resignedly. “You done with the doctoring, Boss? Can I put my shirt back on? It’s getting kinda cold and I’m not sure I can stay awake much longer…”

“Yeah, here, let me help you.”

Dylan pulled the thin, dirty shirt back down, hiding the wounds once again, just as Harper hide the emotional and physical pain behind his carefree mask. Extremely careful of where he placed his hands, the captain helped the boy lie back down, shifting his chains and covering him with the blanket before lying beside him. 

A sudden random thought struck him before he could drift to sleep and he voiced it without thinking.

“ _Almost_ twenty years?” he asked, picking that slip up for the first time.

“Yeah…well,” Harper mumbled, “So I rounded a little. I told Beka the truth later; I just didn’t want her to leave me behind!”

“How old were you really when Beka picked you up?”

“Eighteen.”

 _Eighteen?_ Dylan frowned. “Harper, how old are you now, and no rounding?”

“Twenty-three, almost twenty-four.” 

Harper’s voice showed exactly how tired and hurt he still felt so Dylan dropped the conversation, knowing they had precious few hours of sleep left anyway.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about it, along with everything else that he’d learned today. It only fueled his rage. His friend was only twenty-three years old and already words like starvation, slavery, and torture were a huge part of his life. 

The universe most certainly was not fair.


	21. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

_You've never lived until you've almost died, for those who fought for it, life has a flavor the protected will never know._

\- Anon.

*****

Command was eerily quiet as Tyr stood before the view screen, a bored expression spread across his face. It was the equivalent of night on the mighty warship, and the ship was running on minimal crew as most caught up on some much needed rest. Of course, even minimal crew now was more people than the _Andromeda_ had been staffed with just a few short weeks ago.

Not that the silence bothered the Nietzschean. Rather, he welcomed it. Silence left room for uninterrupted introspection and, as the _Andromeda_ continued to speed after Commander Gaius Felix and the _Charybdis_ , Tyr felt a heightened need for reflection, much to his annoyance.

Several hours earlier a small mutiny of sorts had occurred as Rommie and Trance pulled out all the stops to force Beka to get some sleep. Tyr doubted she was actually complying, but at least she had finally agreed to go to her quarters and stop pacing the Command Deck. 

Tyr found her human need to, as she put it, “be there” sentimental and childish. Remaining on Command was not going to help get their missing crew back any sooner. 

And yet, at the same time, Tyr couldn’t stop his own thoughts from drifting to the missing captain and engineer.

Captain Hunt was an enigma in the universe. He belonged to a time and place so far removed from the current he should have been in a museum, but he refused to accept that. He was stubbornly optimistic, almost to the point of being blind to reality at times, and yet his determined struggle for an all but impossible dream left Tyr with a strange respect and understanding for the man. Their goals might be totally different, but Tyr could relate to his tenacity and desire to reshape the universe, even if he didn’t agree with the proposed plan. They had an odd friendship, willing to put their life on the line to help the other, but at the same time acknowledging that arrangement could and probably would change someday. They were comrades of the moment, with the possibility of finding themselves on opposite sides of the fight always hanging over their heads. But that was the future and this was the now. For now, Tyr would help Beka and the others move heaven and earth to try and get the good captain back because it still fit his agenda, and because a small part of him that he didn’t often acknowledge felt it was worth it out of loyalty and friendship.

And then there was the boy.

Harper was an annoying child, often purposefully baiting Tyr, and yet Tyr found the boy had somehow wormed his way to a place in the Nietzschean’s small circle of comrades to the point Tyr found himself putting the young human’s survival over his own with alarming frequency.

And when he was being completely honest with himself, Tyr had to admit he respected, even admired the boy, maybe even more than he did the Captain. Dylan struck out after his goal with the assurance of someone who had seen and lived the best and desired to see it return. Harper, however, supported Dylan in his foolish quest with a smile and a laugh in a universe that had done its best to see that he never had anything to smile about. Dylan might take that smile and help for granted, but the Nietzschean knew differently. Tyr was not three-hundred years out of date, nor was he a blind idealist who refused to accept the ugliness of the universe around him. He knew of that ugliness firsthand, and he knew Harper did as well. It bothered him that the person he was most like in background was a scrawny, sickly Kludge, but it was true. They shared a deep-seated hatred of the Drago-Kazov, for similar reasons. They also shared an intensely personal and first-hand knowledge of oppression, deprivation, and cruelty, in ways the others in their little family could never hope to comprehend.

 _And we both know of slavery as well_ , Tyr reminded himself. Beka’s revelation of the true reason Captain Hunt and the Little Professor’s capture by Felix was so grave had startled Tyr, although he knew it shouldn’t have. Not that life on Earth as a Kludge under Dragan tyranny wasn’t a form of slavery, but Tyr realized a deep part of his heart that he rarely let show truly hoped the boy had managed to escape the actual chains of Dragan slavers. It saddened him to learn even that small concession had been denied the child, even as he acknowledged to himself that he had probably known all along. The child was deeply wounded and, though he managed to hide it from Dylan and Trance and even Beka behind a carefree mask, he couldn’t hide it from Tyr. Harper was scarred, more than just physically, and Tyr recognized it because far down in some place he hated to admit to he bore the same scars. And that was how the boy, despite his annoying, childish attitude, had won Tyr’s respect. He was a survivor and, in a universe that consistently tried to snuff the life out of people like him, that took grit.

It was also why, even as he admitted the probably futility of their current “wild goose chase,” he was willing to go along. He knew that Dylan and Harper were suffering greatly, if they were even still alive. All friendship and concern for the captain and the boy aside, Harper had risked everything to escape Dragan slavery once before; he didn’t deserve to be left behind in it again. If they were alive, he would help Beka find them; if they were dead, then he would avenge their deaths and hopefully rid the universe of a few more Drago-Kazov in the process.

And then he would decide if it was time to exert his will and take control of _Andromeda_ , or to strike out on his own, or to accept Beka’s command and keep the status quo for a time.

“Tyr?”

Mentally, Tyr blinked at the intrusion as Andromeda appeared on the console before him, but outwardly he showed no sign of being startled.

“Yes, Ship?” he asked.

“We are roughly five light-minutes out from the _Charybdis_ and closing rapidly.”

“Inform Captain Valentine and the girl and have them report to Command.”

“They’re on their way, as is my avatar.”

Tyr nodded, shifting to a more alert position.

“Oh, and Tyr?”

Tyr turned to look at the image on the screen again.

“She appears to be waiting for us,” Andromeda cautioned.

Tyr nodded again as the Command door slid open and a haggard-looking Beka all but dashed through, followed closely by Trance and Rommie. She marched to the Command Console and Tyr gave it up unquestioningly, something that might have surprised her had she taken the time to notice. Trance and Rommie took positions on either side of them, both with grimly determined expressions.

“Rommie, why don’t we –“

“I’m receiving a message from the _Charybdis_ ,” Rommie interrupted before Beka could finish. “It’s from Commander Felix himself.”

“Oh, really,” Beka growled, her eyes positively flashing with anger. “Put the creep through, then.”

“Beka,” Trance warned quietly, placing a hand on her friend’s arm, “be careful.”

Beka acknowledged the golden alien with a nod, but kept her eyes glued to the view screen. Seconds later the smug image of Gaius Felix appeared there, scarlet robes matching his flaming hair.

“Ah, Captain Valentine, I assume? What a _pleasure_ to finally meet you!”

“I want my crew back,” Beka said in a voice made of ice.

Something that could almost have been amusement flickered through Felix’s eyes, “Not one to, as they say, “beat around the bush” are you? I can see why Captain Hunt handled the negotiations, and why the brat never learned to curb his tongue.”

Beka’s blood boiled at the insults, but she’d had too much practice to let it show. “You just admitted to having them; now we want them back.”

Felix leaned forward in his chair. “Ah, but you see, that’s rather complicated and I do so hate discussing complicated matters with so much impersonal space between us. I invite you to come on board my ship where we can talk through these issues civilly and comfortably, perhaps over a nice glass of wine?”

“You expect me to agree to come alone to your ship?’ Beka scoffed loudly, “What do you take me for, a naïve little girl?”

“You want information on your precious Captain and the Kludge, you’ll come. I’ll expect you in fifteen minutes.” And with that, he abruptly cut the transmission.

Beka sighed and ran a hand through her hair, before steeling her expression and moving for the door.

“Beka!” Trance called sharply, “You can’t possibly be going to do as he says?” Rommie looked equally appalled. 

“What choice do I have?” Beka snapped, harsher than she meant in her frustration. “Look, I know you could blast him out of the sky without so much as working up a sweat, Rommie, but we can’t do that, not with Harper and Dylan most likely on that ship. And we can’t take the ship by force without risking their lives either. This is the only way to get to Felix and probably the only way to get the guys out alive. So I’m going.”

Tyr, Rommie, and Trance all looked as though they would like to say something more, but no one spoke up. It was Beka who stopped in the doorway of Command to speak again.

“If I’m not back in one hour, don’t hold back on the ammo, Tyr.”

*****

Anxiously, Trance waited outside the hanger door where the _Eureka Maru_ was usually docked, quite literally counting the minutes. Beka’s allotted hour was almost up and, if she wasn’t back when it ran out, Trance wasn’t entirely sure what she would do. Normally, she should have had a sense of where events like this were going, but things were too messed up right now. Either that or she was too personally involved, something her mother had always warned her she should avoid. 

With a shake of her firry dreadlocks, Trance pushed thoughts of her mother back to the locked corner of her brain where such things should stay even as Rommie’s voice announced that the Maru was leaving the _Charybdis_ to dock with her ship self. Trance let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. 

Impatiently, she waited for her friend to park the freighter and emerge. Even if Dylan and Harper were being held on that ship, she didn’t expect Beka to bring them back. That would simply be too easy. She did hope, however, Beka would return with information that could help them negotiate their release, or at least plan their escape.

She was unprepared for the angry, completely terrifying woman that stalked from the old ship and ran for Command, sweeping past Trance without a glance.

“Beka?” Trance called, shocked and very worried as she ran after her friend.

Beka didn’t even slow down. She burst into Command and turned straight to the startled Nietzschean leaning languidly against the weapon’s consol. 

“Blast them to bits,” she ordered, her voice cold and murderous. 

If Tyr was shocked, he showed it only in the quirk of one eyebrow as he turned silently to obey her command.

“She’s entering slipstream,” Rommie called from another console. “We did only minimal damage,” she added reluctantly, turning to face the angry captain, but she was already gone.

Verging on panic, Trance left the stunned Nietzschean and Android to race after her friend once more. Beka was headed straight for Dylan’s office, no doubt intending to barricade herself inside but this time Trance wasn’t going to be ignored. Quicker than a cat, she slipped through the door behind the blonde captain, almost getting a haircut in the process.

Even though Trance knew Beka was aware of her, the pilot walked straight to the dark window, her back ridged as she pointedly ignored the other woman, instead gazing out at the stars.

“Beka,” Trance coaxed after a minute of total silence, alarms that had nothing to do with cosmic events and everything to do with long established friendships going off in her head.

“Trance, just go away, okay,” Beka finally said, all command gone from her voice. “Just leave me alone, please!” It was almost a sob.

“Beka, what is it? What did you find out?” Trance cried in open concern. She crossed the space between them and laid a hand on her friend’s shoulder, unexpectedly wishing for her long lost tail to add to the embrace.

“You don’t want to know,” Beka said darkly, the bitterness back in her voice.

“I _have_ to know,” Trance insisted.

“Commander Felix was the most _honorable_ of gentlemen. He led me to a private room complete with virtual fire place and chintz armchairs. He invited me to sit and asked me how I took my tea. I told him to drop the act and tell me where Dylan and Harper were. And he told me they were gone.”

“Gone?” Trance echoed in a small voice. “What does that mean?”

With a sigh, Beka shifted slightly toward the young woman. “According to Felix, Dylan is a political prisoner, shipped off to some high-security facility lost in the depths of the Dragan Empire. At least that’s what he said; I’m not sure I believe him.”

“And Harper,” Trance pushed gently but with renewed dread. Not much could make the steady captain fly off the handle, but harm to her “little brother” topped the list.

“I asked where Harper was, Felix said he was dead, that he’d killed him personally and enjoyed every minute of it. I didn’t believe him, said he had nothing to prove that to me. He gave me this.” Beka’s words choked off as she handed over a small bundle that Trance hadn’t noticed before. Deeply apprehensive, the young alien unbound it.

Her hand went to her mouth in horror as she realized what she was holding: Harper’s bloody clothes. Tears sprang to her eyes at the sight even as the medic in her took in the pattern of the bloodstains and tears. He’d been whipped, she realized, and probably beaten – more than once.

“This doesn’t prove he’s dead, Beka,” she said, as much because she needed to hear it as to comfort her friend. 

“That’s what I said,” Beka replied quietly, “but Felix wasn’t done. He’s sitting there drinking tea and he pulls out this to give me, like we’re old chums and he’s showing me a picture of his grandkids.” Beka’s voice was cold once more and that scared Trance more than anything. With more dread than she’d ever felt, Trance took the flexi Beka held out and turned it over.

If she had needed air to sustain herself, Trance would have fainted from lack of it as all breath left her lungs. The flexi contained one image and one image only. Trance felt tears she couldn’t stop rolling down her cheeks. 

At the sight of Trance’s tears, Beka couldn’t hold back her own any longer. With a cry, she fell to her knees, hands covering her face and shoulders shaking as great sobs racked her body. 

“He’s dead, Trance,” she breathed. “Harper’s really dead! I promised him I’d always look after him, protect him, and I couldn’t even do that. I couldn’t even kill the monster who did it! All I could do was walk away as he laughed!”

And Trance found she had nothing to say to that.


	22. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

_Only solitary men know the full joys of friendship. Others have their family; but to a solitary and an exile, his friends are everything._

-Willa Cather

*****

Dylan glanced at his young engineer and sighed heavily. It was near the end of the third day of their forced march across this planet and he was beginning to seriously doubt the young man would last until they reached the mountains; mountains that never seemed to get any closer. Each night as they were tethered out like livestock and each morning before the guards came and dragged them back to the wagon, Dylan had checked his friend’s wounds. While the brand on the boy’s chest still festered and oozed, the doctor’s medicine had done its job and killed the fever and infection in the rest. The whip marks and other injuries were raw and painful, but they were healing and would soon be just more scars to add to an already horrific collection. Even though he’d seen them several times now, the sight of his friend’s tortured back and torso still made Dylan cringe and filled him with guilt. He’d lived with the boy for almost three years and yet he’d had no idea what Harper was hiding behind that cocky smile and under those flamboyant shirts; only twenty-three years old and already enough pain to fill several lifetimes. 

Before his three-hundred year nap slavery had been something of the past to Dylan, a dark part of human history that teachers glossed over in school because surely no one would let civilization fall that far again? Even after his rude awakening into this messed-up universe, he hadn’t really given it much thought; he hadn’t needed to and it seemed so unreal. And yet, while he stoically ignored the uglier side of things, he’d unknowingly spent those three years serving side by side with a young man who literally bore the marks of slavery on his own skin. Felix might have robbed Harper of his sight, but Dylan had been blind as well. He was only starting to realize that, and he had no excuse.

Harper’s chains jangled harshly, and Dylan prepared to steady him should he stumble even as he remembered his earlier train of thought. The boy’s back was healing, his fever was down, even his hands were mending, although not as they should. The nanobots had done their best on Harper’s right hand and the gaping hole had closed to a small scar. Harper had movement back in all five fingers now, but Dylan could tell it was still painful for him. The fragile bones and tendons had already started to heal incorrectly before the doctor’s help, and the small dose of nanobots could only do so much. Still, Harper hadn’t complained; it was better than the alternative. 

Dylan couldn’t stop a glance to the kid’s other hand. It was healing too, but much slower and with no nice results. Felix’s sick nail and hammer had crushed the tiny bones and wreaked havoc with the nerves and tendons. With no way to set the bones and keep them immobile, it was mending all wrong and leaving Harper with a hand that was both painful and useless, his fingers permanently curled in toward his palm. But, there was nothing the captain could do, and at least it was healing.

It was exhaustion and hunger that worried Dylan now. Even he was starting to really feel his age, all three-hundred plus years of it, as his joints protested the long days of walking and his stomach the lack of food. Hunger was not something he was used to. Sure, he’d missed a few meals here and there during battle, training, or a mission gone wrong, but nothing like this. For the first time in his life he was learning what it truly meant to go hungry; to have a constant gnawing in his belly that never went away and a thirst that he was never allowed to quench. They’d trudged mostly in silence for the last two days, Dylan too tired for conversation, and if Dylan, who was healthy, felt the toll of exhaustion and hunger, he could only imagine what it was doing to Harper.

And then there were the boy’s feet; most of Dylan’s concerns rested right there. Everything else was healing, however slowly, but the engineer’s feet were steadily going from bad to worse. The original cuts from the wires had been aggravated to a bloody mess, and more cuts and scrapes had been added to them as Harper’s feet snagged on sharp rocks he couldn’t see or cracked and bled from the dry air and the dust. He could barely walk anymore and was reduced to a limping hobble as he desperately tried to keep up with the wagon they were chained to that never slowed its pace.

Just then Harper’s foot found a particularly sharp rock and tears finally crested his eyes and ran down his sun-burnt cheeks.

“Come on, Harper,” Dylan encouraged desperately. “The sun will be setting soon and we’ll have to stop for the night.”

“I can’t do it anymore, Boss,” Harper choked out as the lead chain jerked his shackled wrists forward and he had no choice but to hobble along.

Grimly, Dylan agreed with the kid and he moved closer to his friend, gently touching his arm.

“Then let me carry you,” he whispered. “Put your arms around my head and climb on my back.”

“The Ubers will never let you,” Harper protested weakly, his sightless eyes turning toward Dylan out of habit.

“Your feet are gonna be bloody stumps by the time we get to this slave camp and then what good will you be? How will you work? Surely they can see that?”

“Dylan, don’t you get it? They don’t care if I’m fit for work or not, or even if I’m almost dead! I’m the trophy, the runaway returned, the slave in chains to parade around and show all the other slaves what happens to people who defy the rules. And the more pathetic I look the better the effect.” Harper stumbled again and this time a small cry of pain escaped his lips. Dylan made up his mind.

“Well, I don’t care what they think, your feet are practically ruined and I won’t let them cripple your feet as well as your eyes and hands.” He stooped and stuck Harper’s bound arms over his head and around his neck before hoisting the protesting engineer bodily up onto his back, surprised at how light the boy was.

As predicted, their Nietzschean guard, whom they’d learned was named Javan, disapproved. He ordered their wagon to stop as he rode up beside them and roughly snatched Harper off the captain’s back, throwing him to the ground. Harper cried out in pain and surprise, his blindness leaving him unprepared and confused. The Nietzschean then turned on Dylan, raking his boneblades across the man’s cheek before bringing the horse whip down harshly around his shoulders – once, twice, three times. Dylan stubbornly stood his ground.

“The Kludge is no longer your pet, _Captain_ , to coddle and pamper. He walks like the slave he is or he gets dragged; his choice,” Javan growled, leaning over his horse’s neck to spit on Harper where he still lay tangled in his chains in the dirt.

“Make him keep doing this for much longer and he won’t be able to walk at all; then he’ll be a really useful slave,” Dylan snapped back. “He’s already crippled and blind, let’s see if we can make him lame before we put him to work, too. Ah, those superior genes and brain cells, hard at work I can see!” Dylan seethed and then turned his head as the backhand came right on cue.

“What’s going on back here?” a new voice asked. Both Dylan and the guard turned to see the wagon master and leader of the company approaching on his silver stallion. Adoniram was a cousin of Felix and the Master of the prison camp, Dylan and Harper had learned from listening, and he was returning to the camp from a visit with his wives in the city. Neither the youngest nor the largest of the group, he still left no doubt who was in charge. Dylan wasn’t fooled by his age or stature; he saw the way his black eyes glittered with coldness and cunning and knew better than to underestimate the man. But he also couldn’t back down.

“I asked what the problem is?” he repeated dangerously, leveling Javan with a cold look. “Can you not control two fettered slaves, one of whom is blind?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dylan saw Harper attempting to struggle to his feet but he dared not take his attention away from the two Niets to help him.

“I’m sorry, Captain Adoniram. The former High Guard was trying to carry the little one. I was simply disciplining.”

Adoniram turned to Dylan. “You are a slave, he is a slave, both prisoners of the Drago-Kazov. Prisoners walk.”

“Captain,” Dylan ground the title out as he bit back his pride, “He can’t walk anymore. Please, his feet are almost ruined!”

Dylan waited for the blow but it didn’t come. Instead, the captain turned his attention to Harper who had finally found his balance again and snatched the startled engineer off his feet by the back of his shirt. With the air of a man judging cattle, the Nietzschean inspected the boy’s feet, his attitude clearly showing Harper was no more than a possession that needed repairing. Coming to a decision, he stepped his horse up to the back of the wagon and dumped Harper in.

“It can ride for the rest of the day; it’s holding us up. But slave,” he added meaningfully to Dylan, “you will still be punished for your disobedience and cheek. Ten lashes, and if you do it again I will punish the boy instead.”

Ten minutes later, the wagons moved forward again and Dylan alone followed on foot this time, his own back stinging and several tears visible in the material of his shirt.

“I’m sorry, Boss,” Harper whispered after a minute as he listened to Dylan’s heavy breathing.

“Don’t be, Harper,” Dylan tried to assure him. “First of all, it isn’t your fault. Secondly, at least I got you off your feet for a bit. I can take a few blows for that.”

Harper sighed. “Dylan, you really gotta lose that noble High Guard attitude now you’re a slave. I’m warning ya, it’s gonna get you, and probably me, killed.” He paused and his voice lowered. “Still, I wish you hadn’t done that. You’re a freakin’ hero in this universe; you shouldn’t have to be treated like a Kludge.”

“Neither should you, Harper,” Dylan said quietly, his eyes sad as he looked at his friend.

They didn’t speak again and another hour passed slowly as the golden sun set in the sky creating a stunning display of light and color. Dylan concentrated on the beauty of the sight and tried to ignore the deep weariness that was settling into his bones, but he was still dead on his feet when Adoniram finally called the group to a stop. Camp was struck quickly and the trusted slaves were preparing the evening meal when a guard finally came to chain them for the night. To Dylan’s surprise, however, only he was lead away and tethered to their pole; Harper remained in the wagon, his blind eyes wide with confusion and his face tense as he strained to follow what was happening. Dylan tried to question the stone-faced guard but only got a kick to go with their meager rations and blanket instead.

Fifteen minutes later, Captain Adoniram himself approached the parked wagon and undid the leading chain from its hook. Lifting Harper roughly from the wagon-bed, he set him firmly on his feet and tugged him forward like a dog on a leash. Harper limped after him, doing his best to keep up while the Niet never said a word. Dylan could tell Harper was close to panicking, not knowing who had him or where he was being taken, but there was nothing the he could do for him that wouldn’t result in more suffering for the young man.

This camp was bordered by a small river and the Captain stopped at a large bolder that stuck out into the riverbed, roughly twenty feet from Dylan’s position. A tall tree stood over the rock, its branches old and strong. Harper could hear the running water and his fear at not being able to see caused him to instinctively dig in his heals and struggle against the chain pulling him forward.

“No, where are we going? What are you doing to –” 

The blow to his face caught him completely off guard, and he clamped his mouth shut in terror. 

Adoniram pushed him down on the bolder so he was sitting and facing the stream. Then he took the leash still attached to the center link of the engineer’s manacles and looped it up over a branch of the ancient tree. When he was done, the chain was secured and Harper’s hands were pulled above his head, elbows slightly bent but still immobile. Dylan could see that his friend’s heart was racing and his blank eyes were darting wildly like a skittish horse; the captain’s own heart was beating sharply as he stood up, unsure what was being done to the boy now. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone?

Still, the Nietzschean said nothing. He went about his work with the manner of a man changing a tire, not someone dealing with a very frightened young human being.

“Please, what are you going to do to me?” Harper begged, all bravado gone in the ever encompassing darkness. His only answer was another slap across the face, and Dylan fumed silently.

Then the Nietzschean pulled out his knife.


	23. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

_**Slavery** n. 1, the condition of a slave; bondage. 2, the practice of enslaving humans. 3, drudgery._

\- Webster’s Dictionary, Old Earth

*****

“Hey!” Dylan shouted with panic, pulling on his restraints.

Adoniram, however, simply used the sharp silver knife it to cut through the blood soaked rags covering Harper’s feet and then replaced it in its sheath. He then pushed Harper’s legs and feet forward until they were submerged in the river up to his ankles and walked away.

For a long time, Harper took deep gulps of air as he worked to calm himself. He half leaned, half sat on the rock, his hands still bound above him, and let the cool water wash over his abused feet. Dylan also took several big breaths, glad Harper hadn’t seen that knife come out and hating how helpless he felt.

Finally, Harper couldn’t stand the fearful doubt and uncertainty of the darkness any longer and he timidly tried his voice again.

“Dylan?” he called softly.

“I’m still here, Mr. Harper,” Dylan answered quietly, and he saw Harper turn his head toward the direction of his voice. “I’m about twenty feet behind you and to your right. The Nietzscheans have gathered for dinner, so we’re alone for now.”

“Where am I?” Harper asked next, trying to get his bearings. Dylan described his position.

“Are you all right?” the captain asked once the young man had calmed down a bit.

“Yeah, I was just confused. Still new to this never-ending darkness thing, remember?” he joked, but Dylan didn’t miss the hint of bitterness in his voice. “The water actually feels really, really good on my feet,” he added. “Although it wouldn’t have killed the Uber to tell me what he was doing instead of leaving me, literally, in the dark. And he didn’t have to string me up to a tree either!” He shook his head, jerking his arms slightly to make his point. “I would have sat here just fine. What do they think I’m gonna do, hobble off and escape blind and in chains?”

“Mr. Harper, sometimes I’m not sure our Nietzschean friends even _think_ at all,” Dylan returned wryly, sitting back down now he knew Harper was safe for the moment.

The cool water soothed and cleaned his lacerated, swollen, throbbing feet, and Harper relished the small comfort, even letting his eyes slide shut. Consequently, he was startled when about an hour later none-too-gentle hands shook him awake and dragged his feet out of the pleasant water. 

Adoniram had come up too quickly for Dylan to give the engineer a warning so the captain simply watched as he released the chain binding the boy to the tree and removed his poor feet from the stream. Still showing no emotion or pity what-so-ever, he drew a can from his vest, shook it, grabbed one of the kid’s feet, and liberally sprayed the whole limb. The substance came out bright yellow and Dylan could tell from Harper’s expression and small yelp of pained surprise that it didn’t feel pleasant at all. One foot done, he swiftly sprayed the other before pocketing the can once more and lifting Harper clean off the rock by his shirt and his hair. He carried the squirming engineer over to Dylan, dumped him on the ground, threw a wad of cloth at the captain, and then swiftly switched the lead chain from Harper’s wrists to his ankles, securing him to the pole for the night.

“Wrap the boy’s feet tightly in those rags, my dear Captain. They’re all the shoes he’ll ever get. For three days he will ride. After that he walks, crawls, or gets dragged, I don’t care which. A slave is a slave. I make no exception for disability, aliment, or,” he gave Dylan a meaningful look, “supposed rank. Disobey me again, question me again, hold us up again and I will beat you both until you keep up and shut up. And I feel no shame in telling you I will enjoy every minute of it.” With that, he threw them a second water bottle and strolled off.

*****

Harper had quickly learned that, while riding did allow his feet a short reprieve to heal, it was really no huge gift. The wagons were old and designed for carrying boxes and crates, not people. They had neither shocks nor pads, and Harper realized there was a reason the other slaves drove them while the Nietzscheans rode on horse-back. In addition, the guards still acted like they expected him to make some miraculous run for freedom at every turn and insisted on tying him up tightly. He was forced to sit in the very back of the wagon he’d walked behind, his sore back pushed up against the side and his feet stretched out before him. His hands, never released from their permanent chains, were stretched above and behind his head and bound to a wagon bow while his legs were locked to the wagon bed by a ring through his ankle chains. It left him with room to squirm but not much else, and he was helpless to brace himself against the jars and jolts of the moving wagon. By the third day his feet were slowly healing but the rest of him was black and blue, and his already painful hands were throbbing from the mistreatment. Semi-healed cracked ribs also reminded him of their condition. Worst of all, just to show who held the power, each day as he rode he’d been gagged. Darkness was bad enough, but to be trussed up and unable to move or communicate made it ten times worse.

Dylan could see the frustration on his friend’s face as he struggled and mumbled around the dirty rag tied through his mouth and so he tried to keep him updated on where they were and what was going on as he walked behind. He also urged the boy, despite his discomfort, to try and sleep as much as he could. His body needed rest to finish healing and fortify him for the long, long days of hard work ahead.

So Harper slept when he could and Dylan talked when he couldn’t, and as evening of his third day riding – their sixth on the trail – rolled around, Harper was almost glad he’d be allowed to walk again. Anything to get out of that wagon, stretch sore muscles, and get that gag out of his mouth!

Like usual, they were led to their pole and chained up before receiving their pitiful rations. As soon as the guard left, Dylan undid Harper’s gag.

“Pth! Pthhh!” Harper spat violently on the ground, pulling a disgusted face. “Not only was that mean, nasty, and uncalled for, gagging me like that, but it tasted fouler than a Nightsider’s crusty socks!” he ranted in a whisper. “And,” he added, holding up his better hand and turning in the direction he assumed Dylan was at, “before you ask, no, you don’t want to know how I know that.”

“I believe you,” he said with a grin. “Don’t let them get to you, though. They’re just bullies, really. It’s just another way for them to feel powerful.”

“Bullies with the power of life and death over us,” Harper muttered, then shook his head and added louder. “I know, Boss, believe me I know. Still, I wish they’d take these blasted chains off,” he complained, shaking his wrists angrily. “I can hardly remember what it feels like to touch my head and my knees at the same time!”

“Nietzscheans and their power kicks,” Dylan muttered with a roll of his eyes. Though he didn’t say it, he too hated the ever present fetters. His own wrists were now bruised and raw. At least his feet were protected by his boots, he remembered, glancing at Harper’s shins, bruised from the shackles, healing scabs from the cruel wires winding up and down them.

“So, how are the feet?” the captain asked to change the subject.

“Eh, better than they were, I’m sure. Of course, everything from the waist down is pretty much numb from that stupid wagon anyway. They could’ve fallen off and I wouldn’t even know.”

“Guess it’s check-up time then,” Dylan teased lightly.

“Yes, sir, Dr. Dylan, sir,” Harper threw back. Modesty and embarrassment long since abandoned, or at least well hidden, Harper quickly shucked off his shirt and turned away from Dylan, exposing his back. “You know, I’d like this much better if you were Trance.”

“Because she’s pretty or because she’d give you a lollipop?”

“Um, both?” Harper said with wide-eyed innocence.

Dylan laughed.

“That’s what I thought,” he said with a smile. “Pretty collection of bruises you’ve added the last couple of days,” Dylan then said, getting down to business and quickly examining his friend’s back.

“Just practicing for when we get to this slave camp, you know. I’m sure they won’t be my last.”

“Sore and stiff?”

“Yeah, a little, but I’m betting you are too, so no biggie.”

“Turn around,” Dylan asked and Harper complied. “I’m worried about your chest; that burn won’t stop oozing.”

“And I already told you it probably won’t for a couple of weeks,” Harper said. “Remember, done this before. Don’t worry about it.”

Dylan sighed, but helped Harper put his shirt back on anyway. “How are the hands?”

“Still here.” Harper slowly flexed his right hand in response. “One’s good, one we’ll just ignore.”

Next, Dylan unwrapped the boy’s feet and washed them using the water Dr. Kesler had left for them by the pole. He hadn’t been to talk with them or check on Harper since that first night but he had left them water for washing when he could, and Dylan often caught him watching them as he tended to Harper, nodding his approval to Dylan.

“You gonna be able to walk on these tomorrow?” Dylan asked skeptically, eyeing the scabbed, red feet.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Probably not.”

“Then yeah, I’ll be okay to walk.”

Dylan rewrapped his feet and left hand and announced he was done.

“All right, tough guy, now it’s your turn,” Harper said quickly, stopping him from dumping the water.

“What?” Dylan was startled.

“Hey look, I know what happened three days ago. I’m blind, not deaf, and I was raised on Earth. I know the sound of a whip when I hear it. Now you might be big and strong and have a dandy immune system, but you’re still hurt and those marks still need to be cleaned. I should have done this before, but this is the first night since it happened that Barty’s brought us water.”

“I’m fine, Harper, really,” Dylan protested.

“And you’re not my captain anymore, so I don’t have to listen to you,” Harper shot back. “So lose the shirt, buster, and turn around.”

“Bossy, aren’t you?” Dylan rolled his eyes as he pulled his shirt up around his shoulders. He didn’t dare take it all the way to his wrists for fear one of the guards would see the precious item he still carried hidden around his neck.

“Well, I learned from the best,” Harper smirked as he awkwardly patted the ground around them until he found the bucket and rag.

“Me, Mr. Harper?”

“Naw, Beka.”

Harper soaked the cloth in the water and rung it out as best he could with one hand. Then he reached out tentatively until he felt the captain’s back. For a moment, he hesitated, feeling slightly uncomfortable, but then he let his fingers lightly trace one of the raised welts left by the whip, brushing the smooth skin around it.

“You’ve never been whipped before, have you?” he asked softly, amazement in his voice, the smooth, unmarred skin telling his fingers what his eyes couldn’t see.

“No,” Dylan admitted. He felt Harper’s fingers continue their tentative exploration of his back and sneaked a glance over his shoulder. The kid’s face was an open book of astonishment, confusion, and sadness.

“Not even at High Guard School or military training or whatever it was?”

“No. The Commonwealth was supposed to be civilized; they didn’t hold with floggings.”

A sudden thought dawned on the captain and he glanced at his engineer again. Just as he had been horrified at the sight of Harper’s scars and had no context to deal with a way of life that allowed that sort of continuous abuse and pain, he realized Harper had no idea what to think of a life without it.

“I’m still sorry they did this, Boss,” Harper said eventually, remembering the cloth he was holding and starting to clean the wounds.

“Don’t worry about it, Harper.” Dylan told him firmly. “I figured this wouldn’t be a picnic when I signed up. Besides, don’t think I’ve never been roughed up before. There were and are a fair amount of people in this universe who don’t exactly like me.”

“True,” Harper agreed, his voice back to its nasal self. “But there’d be a darn sight fewer of them out there if you’d just learn to shoot first and apologize later, you know.”

“Ah, and now you sound like Tyr.”

“Ugh! Don’t even joke about that! My reputation is at stake here!”

They bantered back and forth some more, ignoring the hard reality of their situation until Harper reached for the water bucket to rinse the rag again and misjudged its position, knocking it over. He swore darkly and with vehemence. 

“Hey, it’s all right!” Dylan urged, pulling his shirt back down and turning to face his friend. “You were mostly done anyway.”

“Wouldn’t have happened if I could freakin’ see it! Stupid, no good, worthless eyes!”

He threw the rag to the ground and drew his knees up to his chest, hugging them with his chained hands. Dylan realized Harper wasn’t adjusting to his blindness as well as he’d thought; he was just a very good actor.

“I’m blind and worthless. I get you captured, sold into slavery, chained up like a dog and whipped, and then I can’t even do a simple thing like this without making a mess. I’m just a liability, Dylan, and you should have spaced me ages ago.” He hugged his knees tighter and started to rock slightly.

“Harper, stop it!” Dylan cried, grabbing his friend’s shoulders gently. “I’ll heap loads of anger and blame on the pathetic excuse for a man who did this to you, but I will not, I repeat, I _will_ not blame you! Besides, if I recall right, it was _me_ who got us into this, not you!” he tried to tell him, but Harper wasn’t listening and went right on.

“You should leave me here and go! You’re High Guard and you’re Dylan Hunt; I know you’ve got a way to escape and you’re just not using it because I’m so pathetic and helpless. You should just go!”

Dylan didn’t know what to do, how to get through to his young friend. Finally, he took the boy’s right hand and pulled it toward him. “Feel this, Harper,” he ordered, placing the younger man’s hand on his leg shackles and the longer chain connected to them. “Do you feel them? I’m just as stuck here as you are and that is totally my own doing. And when we do escape, which we will, _you_ are coming with me, because not only are you my crewman and engineer, you’re also my friend! I don’t leave friends behind, okay?”

“But I’m blind, Boss!” Harper sobbed, pulling his hand away and hugging his knees again.

“I know.”

“I feel so helpless and scared,” Harper added quietly.

“Harper, so do I. I hate seeing you like this, and I hate it even more that I can’t do anything to help you.”

“At least you can _see_ ,” Harper murmured. 

They sat silently for a while, Harper still rocking slowly as he tried to get a grip on himself again.

“Harper,” Dylan said after a bit, “you need to eat your supper, such that it is.” He took the boy’s hand again and opened it, placing a granola bar and two sticks of jerky on his palm.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Liar. Now eat it.”

Harper forced his rations down along with some water and then resumed his rocking position. Beside him he heard Dylan sigh but he said nothing and the sound of his chains told Harper that he’d settled back against the pole. Still, Harper knew he wasn’t sleeping. He could feel the captain watching him.

Suddenly, the chains clanked sharply. “Harper,” Dylan’s voice warned, “the guard is coming.”

“Good evening, little slave,” the voice Harper had begun to associate with the name ‘Javan’ spoke from directly above him. Instinctively, he ducked his head. “Antsy are you? Well rested from three days of riding in luxury? Time to put all that pent-up energy to use and start learning your new-” he stopped and Harper suddenly felt cold fingers brushing the collar around his neck “-or _old_ place in life?”

Hands released his leg irons from the cumbersome lead chain and then pulled him to his feet by the slave collar.

‘Tonight, you work as a slave.”

Javan dragged him roughly away by the metal collar, Harper tripping over his feet and trying not to choke. He heard wood popping and the tangy scent of smoke got stronger, telling him he was being brought to the circle of Nietzscheans lounging around the fire. He could also hear them laughing at him as he stumbled to a stop.

“Our boots are dusty from the trail,” Javan continued. He shoved a can and something soft into Harper’s hands. “You will clean them.”

Harper just stood there, not sure what to do and too afraid to move when he couldn’t see the fire or the Ubers.

“Now!” the voice said and Harper was shoved to his knees. “And you will respond when you are spoken to. You will address the speaker properly as ‘Master’.”

“Yes, Master,” Harper muttered through gritted teeth, his temper simmering.

“What was that? I didn’t quite hear you…”

“Yes, Master,” he all but spat.

“Good.” Harper could hear the smile in the guard’s voice. “We will make a trained dog out of you yet. Now, get to work!”

Still on his knees, Harper used his crippled hand to brace the new items against his chest and his other hand to explore them. _A can, smelled like boot polish, and a rag_. Sighing, he spent several minutes trying to open the can, listening as the Niets talked and laughed at his struggles. Can finally open, Harper knew instinctively that he was kneeling at the feet of a seated Nietzschean. Silently cursing his eyes, his fingers, his chains, and the whole Nietzschean race, he fumbled around until he found a boot and then awkwardly started to clean and polish it. While he worked, the guards’ words floated down around him, and his face burned with shame and anger as he listened.

“Scrawny little thing, isn’t it?”

“Slow and clumsy, too.”

“If you ask me, Felix should have left it hanging on that cross.”

“It’s supposed to live and suffer as an example to the rest of the Kludges. That’s why Felix left it blind and crippled.”

“Still, I say he’s getting soft. Kludges are getting too many ideas, forgetting their places. Time to thin the population out a bit – weed out the trouble-makers and have a fine show. I remember once when I was patrolling the Kludge ghetto in Miami back on Earth, a bunch of them decided to rebel. My captain ordered every male over ten rounded up and then killed them, one by one, in front of the rest. Each one got a different technique, too. Took a whole week. I still remember one little brat I broke on the wheel - screamed for his mother for days before a Magog finally finished him off.”

As Harper worked, the Nietzschean continued swapping “heroic” stories. Tears of rage threatened to spill out of the engineer’s broken eyes as he was forced to listen to their sick boasting, wishing for a way to block the sounds from his ears.

Still chained to the pole, Dylan was livid. He stood with his hands clenched tightly as he watched the Nietzscheans and their game of cat-and-mouse. Too far away for the light of the fire to really reach him, he still heard every word and had a clear view as they taunted and toyed with his engineer. Harper would finish one pair of boots and then he would have to crawl blindly until his searching hand found a new pair, the Nietzscheans never offering help. Sometimes the can or lid would get away from him and he would have to grope on his hands and knees for it. Usually, just before his fingers could touch it, a Niet would reach out and kick it, sending it skittering off again. That wasn’t the only cruelty, however; feet stuck out and tripped him, boots pushed his backside as he searched and sent him sprawling. Only when his struggles sent him dangerously close to the fire did someone intervene. Grimly, Dylan understood that Harper was not there to clean their boots; the men were bored and Harper was their entertainment, plain and simple.

“Hey, slave,” one of the guards suddenly addressed Harper. “Why aren’t you singing?”

Harper was too surprised to reply until a man rapped him sharply on the head.

“Singing?” A harder knock. “ _Master_?” Harper added grudgingly.

“Yes, you should be singing. You should be so happy your pathetic little life was spared and you get to serve as a slave instead that you should be bursting with song like a good little mudfoot.”

Dylan could almost hear Harper’s teeth grind despite the distance between them.

“Yes, little slave, give us a song now!” the other guards joined in the taunting as they laughed.

A look passed over Harper’s face and Dylan tensed. Even from far away, he knew that look; it was the look Harper got when he was about to do something rash and foolish and he knew it but was too angry to care. Still kneeling on the ground, his fingers black from the boot polish, streaks of it smeared across his face and clothes, Harper raised his head and started to sing, softly but unwaveringly.

“ _Oh say can you see, by the dawn’s early light, what so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming? Whose broad strips and bright stars…_ ”

Stunned, for a moment the Nietzscheans just sat there. Then, almost as a group, their faces contorted with rage. The one who had requested a song slapped Harper hard across the mouth, shutting him up. He swung back for a harder hit, fist clenched, but a hand stopped him.

“I’ll handle this,” Adoniram said, stepping into the circle from the shadows. Harshly, he dragged Harper from the circle by his chains, pausing by the fire to pull a thin stick from the abandoned pile of kindling. A short way from the group, he threw Harper to the ground face down and jerked his shirt up to his neck, standing on his wrist chains to immobilize the boy. 

“I do not tolerate insolence in slaves!” he roared. “You will learn that, one way or another!” With that he brought the switch down hard on Harper’s still healing back: once, twice…

“Count them!” he ordered, kicking the young man in the side and starting over.

“One,” Harper ground out through the anger and a mouthful of dirt. “Two…”

Dylan clenched his hands and bit his lip each time the wood stung skin and Harper spat out a word.

“Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.”

Adoniram threw the stick aside and grabbed Harper by the hair, dragging him the rest of the way to their pole and dumping him in a tangled mess of shirt, chains, and limbs by Dylan while he reattached his leash.

“I’m warning you for the last time, boy! And I can be much more inventive with punishments back at the camp!”

Dylan waited until the Nietzschean captain was out of hearing range before he spoke to Harper who was stubbornly untangling himself and gingerly righting his shirt.

“That was incredibly stupid!”

“And yet, somehow, incredibly satisfying.”

“Harper, don’t give them a reason to beat you! You’re already sporting enough injuries that by rights you should be confined to a bed on med-deck!” Dylan scolded, reaching over and lifting his shirt to examine the boy’s back again, not bothering to ask permission. Yet, even as he scolded him, Dylan couldn’t help feeling a twinge of gladness and a small swell of pride. This was sounding much more like the Harper he knew, not the sad, lost, rocking figure of a couple hours ago.

“I’m okay!” Harper said angrily, jerking his shirt back down and leaning out of Dylan’s reach. “It was just a stick; it probably hardly broke the skin. I’m not a kid, stop coddling me! Besides, what if it had been you out there, listening to that crap and kneeling at their feet, licking their boots? What would you have done?”

“Probably something a lot stupider,” Dylan admitted.

“Exactly.”

Harper shifted around, trying to get semi-comfortable for the night before he spoke again.

“You sure better be thinking about that escape, though, Boss. I refuse to spend the rest of my life in chains as the Uber’s whipping boy and clown.”

“Believe me, I’m working on it, Mr. Harper. You just stay alive and in one piece, and I’ll work on the rest.”

And glancing at his friend, blind and hurting, Dylan knew Harper might have the harder end of that deal. _Oh, why was it never easy?_


	24. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

_The fastest way to succeed is to look as if you're playing by somebody else's rules, while quietly playing by your own._

\- Michael Konda

*****

Rommie approached Command with her usual brisk pace. Nothing of her appearance showed anything but professionalism and attention to duty. On the inside, however, her emotions were a mess. She held it together because Beka needed her to and because, dang it, she was a warship! Warships didn’t just fall apart! But the truth was, she felt broken. Her captain was missing, a prisoner of a psychotic nut-case, carried off who knew where to a Nietzschean prison. And her engineer was…was… There was no way around it; her engineer was dead.

Trance and she had tested the blood from Harper’s clothes; it was definitely his. In desperation, Rommie had analyzed the flexi and image, wanting more than anything to find it had been faked, tampered with, touched up, anything! But it was all in vain. The image had passed every test and Rommie was forced to admit it was genuine, which left the only logical conclusion one she didn’t like to make. While it was impossible to tell if Harper had been alive when the image was recorded, it didn’t really matter in the end. She didn’t need a brain the size of a planet to know that humans did not survive crucifixion, especially not fragile humans like Harper.

Harper was dead. Somehow, just processing that sentence hurt more than she thought was possible.

And somewhere out there in the universe there were some Nietzscheans who were seriously going to pay. No one touched her engineer, let alone did what that monster Felix had done to him. Felix might as well be a walking corpse, because he was already marked dead in her book; that is, if she could get to him before Beka, Trance, or Tyr.

Beka and Trance’s responses to the image had been heart-wrenching but predictable. They were crushed, horrified, and enraged at the same time. Tyr’s, however, had surprised her, and she decided she needed to study him closer; Rommie didn’t like surprises. Tyr had taken one look at Harper hanging on that cross and a cold, hard rage had filled his eyes. He’d said nothing, but there was emotion on his face that for once he either couldn’t or wouldn’t hide. That alone spoke more than words his true feelings about this treatment of “The Little Professor,” and Rommie knew she wasn’t the only one plotting painful and humiliating ways to dispose of a certain red-headed Nietzschean scum.

But first, they needed to get Dylan back. Harper was already dead; Dylan still had a chance. Calloused as it might sound, the captain had to come before the revenge they were all aching for. Beka, acting captain officially now that they knew for certain Dylan was essentially a POW, had decided to try the legal route first. Rommie knew Beka’s instincts were screaming at her to just take off and find Dylan, but she also knew Beka had a smart head on her shoulders and respected her restraint and judgment. Dylan could be anywhere in the Dragan’s empire, an empire that stretched for galaxies and covered thousands of different worlds. They needed help, and both Rommie and Beka knew that. Plus, Beka had a responsibility and a promise to Dylan to keep; for him, they’d do this his way.

Which is why they were currently orbiting Tarazed, and Rommie was on her way to Command right now to speak to Tri-Jema with Beka via the comm.

The doors slid open before her and she strode purposefully inside. Trance and Tyr were there, but Beka had dismissed everyone else. This was a private conversation; no google-eyed cadets needed.

Rommie’s ship-self appeared on the view screen. “Receiving transmission now, Beka.”

“All right, here goes nothing,” Beka muttered, unconsciously standing taller and running a hand through her hair. Andromeda flicked off the screen and was replaced by the image of the dark-haired Commonwealth leader.

“Captain Valentine,” the woman said with a nod.

“Tri-Jema,” Beka replied. “You know why we’re here.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then there’s no reason to waste time sitting here talking. We need to mobilize the fleet, form a search party, as well as have you start negotiations with the Dragans to see if we can somehow talk them into giving Dylan back. Honestly, I think we should do our talking with smoking guns, but I know you political types like to try reasoning first, so the sooner you get started, the sooner we can go and find Dylan and kick some Nietzschean behind.”

Rommie was quite pleased. For Beka, that was _good_ diplomacy. The avatar could tell she was trying very hard to step up to her new role.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Tri-Jema spoke calmly, lacing her fingers together on the desk in front of her.

“What do you mean _that’s not possible_! You’re in charge; just give the orders!”

“It’s not quite that simple. There are more complex issues involved than you could possibly understand, but unfortunately, it boils down to one thing. The Commonwealth does not have the resources to launch a rescue for one man; not against the Drago-Kazov. We’re on tenuous footing with them as it is. One small thing could set off an all-out war, a war we can’t afford right now with the Worldship on its way.”

If looks could kill, Tri-Jema would have been dead four times over.

“I can’t believe this!” Beka exclaimed. “This is _Dylan Hunt_ we’re talking about! _The_ Captain Hunt! You know, the guy who restored the Commonwealth and all that! You wouldn’t be here without him, and yet you’re gonna leave him rotting in an Uber prison because it’s inconvenient to deal with a few Neanderthals with bone-blades?”

“We aren’t happy about this either and believe me, this decision wasn’t made lightly, but you must realize there is more to this. Dylan would understand.”

“Like heck Dylan would understand! Those monsters killed his engineer, _my_ engineer! Tortured and killed him! Crucified him! Do you know what that looks like? They sent us a picture of him dying if you’d care to learn!” Beka paused for breath, gripping the console like it was the only thing keeping her upright. “And they still have Dylan, doing who knows what to him, because of some stupid top-secret mission _you_ sent him on, and you’re telling me I should just sit tight and be patient?”

“Actually, I’m not telling you, I’m ordering you. And as acting captain of the _Andromeda_ , you’re duty bound to obey that order. Dylan made provisions to assure you would assume command if something should happen to him, despite your unorthodox background. For now, we are willing to accept that, but fight this and that could change.”

“Honesty amongst thieves, I see,” Tyr muttered, clearly meaning to be heard. Tri-Jema frowned.

“Look, Captain Valentine, if the opportunity presents itself to get him out, we’ll jump on it. Until then, Dylan will just have to work on freeing himself. He’s a smart man; he’s done it before, he can do it again. In the meantime, we offer our sincere condolences on the loss of your engineer, but these things happen, especially on special ops missions; a mission, I might add, he was never supposed to be on. Now, Dylan thought highly enough of you to give you command of his ship, use it wisely and toe the line! Tri-Jema out.”

The image flickered off abruptly and silence reigned in Command, thick and heavy. Beka was fuming, Rommie and Tyr looked deadly, and Trance pale.

Beka finally swore quietly, breaking the silence.

“Well, that was a resounding success.”

“How can they do that?” Trance cried. “After everything Dylan has done for them! Don’t they realize how important it is to find him?”

“I don’t think they care,” Tyr spoke calmly. Everyone swiveled to look at him.

“What do you mean?” Beka asked.

“Think about it, Beka. Two months ago, the Commonwealth would have happily left Dylan and Harper stuck in prison for a murder they did not commit, with no investigation whatsoever. They sent him on this latest mission knowing how likely it was he would come back and didn’t bat an eye…”

“Are you suggesting the Commonwealth orchestrated the whole thing?” Rommie growled, crossing her arms.

“Of course not. For one, I doubt they’re that clever. I’m merely suggesting they took advantage of the opportunity to keep Dylan and his annoying morals out of the way.”

“Why would they want him out of the way, though? He’s the heart and the soul _of_ this Commonwealth” Trance enquired, sounding much like the purple child she used to be.

“Because he’s an annoyingly honest guy who refuses to give up on his dream,” Beka answered for Tyr, sighing heavily. “What a mess…”

She closed her eyes and ran a hand through her hair, clearly frustrated and unsure. Then she stared at the empty view screen for a long time. Finally, she turned to her friends.

“Tyr, you have Command. I’ll be on the _Maru_.”

Rommie watched the blonde woman leave Command, her shoulders slumped dejectedly.

*****

Beka sat at the small table in the _Maru_ ’s common room, a Sparky clutched in one hand. Truthfully, she hated the sickly-sweet stuff, but ever since she’d found out that Harper was… _gone_ , she’d found herself drawn to them. It was a small way to keep her friend close, though it did nothing to fill the gaping hole in her heart.

More than anything, she wanted to just sit and cry. Her best friend and adopted brother was dead; killed in one of the most cruel and painful ways ever invented, and at the hands of the source of so many of his nightmares. She wanted – _needed_ – time to mourn, but she didn’t have it. Dylan, also her friend, was still missing and she also needed and wanted to get him back.

She didn’t care what Tri-Jema and the Commonwealth said or ordered; there was no way she was leaving Dylan in the clutches of the Dragans. She was absolutely sure she didn’t even have to ask to know Rommie, Trance, and Tyr were behind her one-hundred percent. But she also couldn’t just rush off and save him. The Universe was an awful big place for only four people to search, even if one did have the power of “knowing things” and another a brain as big as a planet. Besides, it was more complicated than that. She’d promised Dylan she’d continue his dream and take care of his ship. She fully intended to go looking for the man, but she had to be careful. If she directly defied the Commonwealth right now, she could jeopardize everything Dylan had fought for. What was the good of saving him to bring him back to nothing?

Beka slumped on the stool and put her head in her arms. “Oh, Harper,” she whispered. “What should I do? I failed you; what if I fail Dylan as well? What if I can’t live up to what he saw in me? I’m just a freighter pilot with a rather loose interpretation of the law! What do I do?”

She stopped and looked around, but Harper didn’t answer.

Harper wasn’t there.

Holding back tears, Beka got to her feet and walked into the crew quarters, stopping by Harper’s bunk. The clothes Felix had gloatingly returned to her lay folded on the blanket. After Trance and Rommie had finished their tests, Trance had lovingly cleaned them and gently given them to Beka, telling her she should keep them.

Impulsively, Beka reached out and traced the design on the green shirt. It had been one of Harper’s favorites. She bought it for him to mark the anniversary of his first year in space and on her crew. She couldn’t believe he still had it and had cared for it so carefully, but then again, Harper never threw anything away. He just couldn’t; an Earth trait he couldn’t shake. 

Her fingers moved to the two small pins still attached near the collar. One showed Harper’s honorary rank and title in the Commonwealth, similar to the one she now wore as well. The other was the medal for bravery Dylan had presented him with a short time ago. Oh how proud he’d been! Almost shy about it when he’d showed her! And he’d never taken it off. She doubted Dylan realized how much Harper looked up to him, and how proud he was to think the captain had trusted him with his precious medal.

At least that creep Felix had sent them back with the clothes. At least she still had that.

Her eyes strayed to Harper’s pants and belt, the empty pockets and loops where his precious tools were kept making her sad. The belt loop where his…

“What the –?” she spoke without realizing it.

Purposefully, she turned the clothes over, searched all the pockets; nothing.

“That makes no sense. Why would Felix send it all back, even the boots and socks, but keep that? Why not the medals, or the nanowelder?”

Frantic, all thoughts of the Commonwealth or Tri-Jema’s orders driven from her mind, Beka searched one last time, but she still came up empty. Harper’s lucky rabbit’s foot was missing, gone. In almost six years, she’d never seen the young man without it. It was probably one of only two things he had that he’d actually brought with him from Earth, and he _never_ took it off. Heck, he even slept with it. So why was it missing now? It should be right there, on his belt loop! Harper would never have removed it!

Unless…

Unless…

Unless he was still alive! A still alive and breathing Harper would have done everything in his power to keep that treasure with him, even in an Uber prison.

Hope spiked through Beka like molten lava. She grabbed the clothes to her and sprinted for Command.

All three of her friends were still there, discussing their situation, when she burst in on them, breathing hard.

“Harper’s not dead!” she shouted as they spun around in surprise. “He’s not dead and I have proof and we’re gonna get them back if I have to personally knock down every door on every planet in this universe, and the Commonwealth can just take their orders and shove it!”


	25. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

_HARLEM  
What happens to a dream deferred?_

_Does it dry up  
Like a raisin in the sun?  
Or fester like a sore—  
And then run?  
Does it stink like rotten meat?  
Or crust and sugar over—  
Like a syrupy sweet?_

_Maybe it just sags  
Like a heavy load._

Or does it explode?

\- Langston Hughes

*****

Harper was immeasurably tired of walking. His feet hurt, his hands hurt, everything ached, but over the long days, he'd accepted pain as the new norm in his life and pushed it purposefully aside. The pain wouldn't kill him...but the boredom just might.

They'd been trudging across this planet for roughly two and a half weeks. Dylan had tried to keep track of their days, but he wasn't entirely sure he'd counted it right. Not that Harper really cared all that much. Walking mindlessly for that long was enough to drive anyone nuts, but doing it in never-ending, all-consuming darkness was brain-numbing. The days all ran together in blank sameness and the nights were all variations on discomfort and humiliation.

Harper felt like he was slowly going insane.

Dylan tried to help. He talked to him, and Harper latched onto his voice like an anchor. It was the only thing that kept him connected and reminded him that there really was a world out there beyond the dark void he existed in now. But you could only describe trees and rocks and grass for so long, and sometimes even Dylan ran out of things to say.

There were also awkward moments when Dylan actually forgot that the boy trudging silently beside him was walking in the dark. “Have you noticed all the wrecked ships?” he’d say, or “Harper, look at that!” he’d exclaim trying to draw the engineer out of his shell. Silence would follow as Harper sadly ducked his head and Dylan realized what he’d just said, or Harper quietly reminded him he couldn’t see. Harper didn’t need eyes to know the captain was kicking himself for those slips, and he tried to pretend it didn’t matter, it was all good.

He was pretty sure he fooled neither Dylan nor himself.

And he went on, one weary, bruised foot after the other. For the last several days Harper had felt the rocky ground steadily rising under his bare feet, and he prayed they would be at the prison camp soon. It was a classic case of ‘out of the frying pan, into the fire’ but he didn’t really care. Anything to stop this stupid, pointless walking.

The day finally ended and they were lead to their tether just like all the other nights they’d spent on this wretched journey. As soon as he reached the metal post, Harper sank wearily to the ground, pretense abandoned ages ago. Once they were both secured for the night and had their meager supper, the Niet left and for the first time in days, no one returned to drag Harper back for the nightly ‘slave comedy act’.”

The atmosphere of the camp felt odd tonight. Even Harper could feel it; he didn’t need his eyes to know something was different. Just listening he could tell the Nietzscheans unpacked less, their meal was hasty, and no fire was lit.

“Think we’ll be there tomorrow?” Harper finally asked, knowing Dylan would have noticed the changes as well.

“We’re pretty far back in these mountains now. I’d guess we’ll be there in the next day or so,” Dylan replied, glancing at his friend as he spoke. Harper lay on his back, blind eyes staring blankly at the night sky. The constant walking and the pitiful amounts of food, coupled with his injuries and illness hadn’t been kind to the engineer. He’d lost weight – rapidly – and the slave clothes that had been too big on him to begin with hung ridiculously loose now. “Why,” he continued, trying to keep his brain from dwelling on what he couldn’t fix, “you excited to get there?”

“Maybe,” Harper replied, turning his head toward Dylan’s voice. “And wipe that my-engineer’s-gone-nuts look off your face; I know it’s there. No, I’m not crazy, and yes, I know what’s waiting for us there, probably better than you do, but if we keep walking like this for much longer I really am gonna snap. I’m so sick of walking and tripping and eating trail grit and dust day after day I could scream!”

“You’ve got a good point there.”

“Of course I’ve got a point. Super-genius, remember?”

Dylan laughed. He knew Harper’s carefree tone and light comments only hid the hurt, humiliation, and fear he really felt, but then so did his own laugh. No matter the truth, it still felt good to laugh.

Still on his back, Harper raised his chained arms and ran his better hand through his greasy, matted, dirty hair and across the beard that now covered his face, grimacing. 

“You know, space has spoiled me, Boss. I grew up not really carrying, but right now, I’d give anything for a bath, clean clothes, a toothbrush, and a shave. Definitely a shave,” he said firmly, scratching irritably at his cheeks.

Harper with a beard was certainly something it had taken Dylan a bit to get used to. In the three years they’d served together, he’d never seen the boy anything but clean-shaven. Okay, maybe a bit scruffy now and then, but never a full-fledged beard. It looked wrong on him. It was, however, the only thing that kept the horrible clothes and the young man’s slight frame from making him appear all of twelve-years-old. Dylan didn’t need personal experience to know it probably wasn’t a good thing to look pitifully young and weak in an Uber prison camp, so maybe the beard was okay.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Dylan teased. “It kinda suits you.”

“Hey, you have no room to talk! By the smell of ya, you’re doing your own rendition of ‘back to nature’, Captain Shaggy Mountain-Man.”

“Actually, I’m not. At least, not shaggy,” Dylan replied with another laugh.

“What!” Harper cried, sitting up.

“Nanobots,” the captain explained. “Like Beka’s. Only mine control the length of my hair, not the color. Never have to shave if I don’t want to. Comes in handy on long missions.”

Harper frowned and crossed his arms. “I don’t believe you.”

“Here,” Dylan said, gently extracting Harper’s right arm from his pouting posture. He pulled his friend’s hand up and touched the back of it against his face, once again reminded of exactly how isolated and cut-off Harper was. “No scruffiness, just like I said.”

Harper shook his head and pulled his hands back. “That is so freakin’ not fair,” he muttered, scratching at his own face again.

“Sorry,” Dylan shrugged. “I always thought you knew,” he added. 

“No,” Harper cringed. “Why would I know the personal hygiene habits of the great Captain Hunt? A – that’s just a little bit odd and a lot creepy and B – I had better things to do and think about!”

Dylan laughed again, and Harper scowled.

“Loving the sympathy I feel radiating from you here,” Harper muttered grumpily, although not really meaning it. “At _least_ you still stink, and have to wear the nasty pajama uniform with me,” he added huffily. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to bed. Wouldn’t want someone to steal my suite. I just got the down comforter the way I like it.”

*****

Harper and Dylan knew they were approaching the mining camp long before it could be seen. It stunk of unwashed bodies, human waste, filth, sickness, and death. More than that, it reeked of hopelessness and despair. The scent permeated the mountains around it for a good mile before the camp even came into view, dragging Harper’s already broken spirits even further down into the dust.

Sometime later, it was impossible to judge how long as he walked in the dark, the wagon tugged Harper around a turn in the windy road, and he heard Dylan sigh beside him.

“You can see it, can’t you?” he asked quietly.

Dylan nodded then remembered Harper’s eyes. “Yes,” he said, unable to disguise the weariness in his voice.

“Tell me,” Harper said firmly, resolutely raising his head as they plodded ever nearer.

Dylan sighed again. When they’d turned that last corner and he’d seen what lay ahead, he’d felt cold, hard fear and despair grip his heart with icy fingers. Down the road about a quarter of a mile was an ugly wound in the otherwise beautiful surroundings. Three huge barbed-wire fences formed half circles through a barren wasteland, only stopping when they dug right into the solid rock of the mountain face. Dirty, dark buildings sat in rows off to the sides while a filthy open space filled the middle of the camp, the black mouth of the mine yawning threateningly in the background. The road lead straight into the camp, passing through three gates of iron bars, and guards walked the perimeter, both inside and out. Just inside the last gate and off to the left sat two stone buildings, well-kept and clean, jarringly out of place with the misery around them. One even had flowers planted in the windows. With sudden clarity, Dylan realized these were for the Nietzscheans, offices and rooms to live in comfort and safety, well within sight of the pitiful slaves, taunting them in their squalor.

Squalor and misery they were heading straight for. 

Dylan had never felt more like a failure. Here they were at the slave camp and he still hadn’t managed to think of an escape plan. Nearly three weeks on the open road, sleeping at night with no guard and only a metal chain between them and freedom… Harper looked up to him as some kind of hero; why hadn’t he even managed to save them yet, then? Why were they about to be herded into some cesspit of misery? 

Because, Dylan admitted to himself with anger, unlike what Harper and many others in the universe thought, he wasn’t Superman. They might have only been chained up, but even he couldn’t break solid steel to free them. And where would they have gone? Empty plains and fields for miles, nothing to hide behind and no way off the planet? 

And a friend that might put on a front of snarky attitude and humor but was still in a world of hurt. 

Dylan glanced at Harper and noticed the ever present lines of pain etched through his face, the hobbling limp that had become the norm, the blank and drifting eyes, the clawed left hand, fingers curled and stiff, useless… Then he looked back at that ever-nearing camp and his guts twisted in despair. 

“Oh, heaven help us,” he whispered to himself.

“Dylan?” Harper asked again when his friend failed to respond, breaking into the captain’s drifting thoughts.

“It looks like something from Ancient Earth, Harper, straight from Nazi Germany.” Dylan’s voice was sad.

“You’re surprised?”

“I’d just hoped that after three thousand years, civilization would be better than this. Plus, I thought the Nietzscheans were more imaginative.”

“Dylan, they might be ‘superior,’ but deep down they’re still human. And humans have a long history of cruelty as well as kindness. Nietzscheans have gleaned from the same history as we have, and they’ve grabbed after the _uber_ best of human history and the _uber_ worst.”

Harper stopped speaking, but he could feel Dylan still looking at him.

“What?” he asked.

“Just that, sometimes, you surprise me, is all,” Dylan finally said, but Harper could hear a note of admiration in the comment as well.

They were only fifty feet from the first gate now, and Dylan knew things were going to happen quickly.

“Harper,” he spoke quietly, feeling he should try and keep the engineer up to speed and also growing in apprehension. “We’re about to enter the camp. Any idea what will happen next?”

“Some. Nothing pleasant, I can tell you. I’m not at all sure they run things here like I remember it from my last slave experience. The complete lack of technology has me stumped and leaves me guessing as to what comes next.”

“Harper,” Dylan said again as the wagon passed through the first gate. “I’m not sure they’ll keep us together.” Dylan caught the flicker of fear that raced across Harper’s face at the thought of being blind and alone in this horrible place. “If they do separate us,” Dylan went on, “promise me you’ll keep your head! Don’t do anything stupid. Just stay alive until I can think of a way to get us out of here, please!”

“I promise I’ll try, Boss,” Harper said, his voice hollow. He heard the first gate clang shut behind them and flinched. It sounded so cold; so final.

“Boss, I need to say this. I never said it before because…well…lots of reasons. But I want you to know, before whatever happens here, happens… Thanks for what you did, coming with me and all.”

Clang.

Gate number two slammed shut, and Harper hurried on with urgency. “Whatever happens, know I’m not mad at ya. I never really was.”

“I know, Harper.”

The wagon rolled to a stop.

Clang.

The last gate closed behind them with a vibrating echo, and Harper couldn’t help but feel he would never be on the other side of it again. All the dreams and hopes and wishes that he’d dared to let take root and start slowly growing in his soul since Beka had found him shattered like glass with that clang. Instead, the smells and sounds of the prison camp assaulted him full force and moved in to replace them, but he also felt Dylan step closer so their arms were brushing, offering silent support and guidance, reminding him that he wasn’t totally alone in this. He turned toward the friend and captain he could no longer see, his lips twisted into a resigned smile, and spoke with a voice that was trying hard not to become a sob.

“Dylan, welcome to Hell.”

 

**END of PART TWO**


	26. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

_“That ain’t no woman. That is a force of nature.”_

\- Cody from _The Young Riders_

*****

“Move, Kludge!” Javan yelled, gleefully shoving Harper forward with the barrel of his gun. When Harper hesitated, unable to see where the Nietzschean wanted him to go, Javan pushed him hard enough he went down on his knees.

“He can’t see, remember!” Dylan ground out, reaching down to help the engineer up.

“Did someone say you could talk?” Javan glared at Dylan. “Shut up and walk, both of you!” he added, rushing them through a doorway in the hall and into a large room. “I don’t have all day!”

Shoving with one hand and holding them at gun point with the other, Javan man-handled them over to a desk. This was clearly the _receiving room_ , designed large enough to hold long lines of slaves.

“Rosie!” the Nietzschean bellowed, pounding on the desk.

They heard noises and a muffled voice coming from a back room behind the desk, but no one came out.

“Woman! Where are you?”

“I told you I was coming!” a gravelly voice bellowed from the back room. A few seconds later a woman emerged.

Now, in the real world, little girls in bright dresses with pigtails were named Rosie. Kittens with pink noses were named Rosie. Women with soft lips and full curves were named Rosie. 

This was no Rosie!

She was large. No, scratch that; she was massive, and solid. In fact, she gave off the appearance of a small boulder, and looked about as immovable as one. She wore an ill-fitting, loose dress of the same brown material as his and Harper’s pants, a prison number painted on the back. Her black hair was cropped short like a man’s and the familiar slave tag graced her left ear, but she didn’t act like any slave Dylan had ever seen before. Her eyes glittered beady and mean in her fat face, and she moved with authority. Even Javan seemed to hold her in some sort of respect. There was no doubt about it, this woman was scary.

“Ah, Master Javan,” she soothed, seeing who was there. Dylan noted she received neither warning nor reprimand for her earlier disrespectful tone. “What do you need?”

“New recruits,” Javan explained, pushing Harper forward again with an evil smile. He might as well have said ‘fresh meat,’ Dylan thought, the way they were being looked at by both of them.

“This time of year? It’s not recruitment season,” Rosie said, eyeing Harper with disgust.

“Prized possessions of Commander Felix himself,” Javan said.

Dylan was getting really sick of being talked about like he wasn’t even there, or worse, he was a chair or table, but he clamped his mouth shut and held his tongue. Harper was being strangely silent, and Dylan figured he should follow his lead.

“Anyway, they’re all yours,” the Nietzschean said, smirking one last time as he went to walk away.

“Master, wait,” the woman called after him. “Their shackles? Aren’t you going to remove them?”

Javan laughed. “Not for these two! The chains stay; Felix’s orders. The scrawny one is a runaway, here to set an “example” for the rest. The other thinks he’s someone rather special, and the Commander feels it’s important to remind him he’s not. So, the shackles stay; you’ll have to work around them.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Dylan muttered under his breath as he watched Harper’s shoulders sag even further. He knew how he felt; he was also so sick of the cumbersome fetters he could scream.

Laughing one more time, Javan left the room with a carefree jaunt.

“All right you two, over here,” the imposing woman ordered, pulling a large book from a shelf and opening it on the desk. “And don’t think you can try anything with the guard gone. Not only is there nowhere to go, you don’t want to make me mad.”

Somehow, Dylan believed her.

She picked up a pen and looked pointedly at Harper. “Name?”

Of course Harper didn’t answer; he had no idea she was speaking to him. Gently, Dylan nudged him in the back.

“Name!”

“Seamus,” Harper spoke, anger on his face. Dylan was surprised by the answer.

“And you?”

“Dylan Hunt,” he answered firmly. He watched for it, but no flicker of recognition or curiosity passed through her expression, and he realized she’d never heard of him; she didn’t know him from Adam.

She finished writing and closed the book with a snap that caused Harper to flinch.

“From now on, you’re no longer Seamus or Dylan Hunt. You’re prisoners – numbers 6557 and 6558. Your old identities cease to exist right here, right now. This is your life now. You’re slaves of the Drago-Kazov and you’d better remember your place. They’re your Masters and you’re nothing more than trash. Don’t expect to be treated any differently.”

Her eyes sparkled as she spoke, and Dylan realized she enjoyed this, gleefully stealing the lives of helpless men and women. He watched her replace the book on the shelf and round the desk. “Follow me,” she ordered and strode toward a doorway on the far side of the room.

Briefly, Dylan considered jumping her, or making a run for it, but he put the thought aside. There were at least forty Niets with guns between them and freedom, not to mention three locked gates and a friend who was blind.

“Come on, Harper,” he said, carefully taking his friend by the arm. “We’ve been summoned.”

“Not sure I’m excited to be invited,” Harper murmured, letting Dylan guide him from the room.

They followed Rosie down a bare, stone hallway and into a windowless room that smelled strongly like a swimming pool.

“Strip,” she ordered unceremoniously, leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

Harper ducked his head, but Dylan had had it.

“And how do you expect us to do that wearing these chains?” he demanded.

“Like this!” she growled. Stepping up to Harper, she grabbed the hem of his shirt and jerked it up, over his head, and off his arms until it was only dangling from the chain that connected his wrists. His eyes, when he emerged, were wide with surprise, indignation, and embarrassment. 

“Now, lose the shirt and pants before I do it for you!” she spat at Dylan.

Dylan was prepared to argue, but he felt Harper’s hand on his arm.

“Strip on down, Boss,” he spoke with a smirk. “I promise not to look.” It was a joke, but it was also a warning, Harper-fashion.

Knowing this was meant to further humiliate them, Dylan tried not to give in to his anger as he reluctantly complied. As he pulled his shirt off, however, he was careful to hide Harper’s rabbit’s foot in its folds, twining the cable round his fingers and hoping it wouldn’t be noticed. Soon he was standing in his shorts next to Harper, his pants bunched round his boots and his shirt round his wrists. He hadn’t felt this ridiculous since freshman initiation at the Academy. One glance at Harper told him he wasn’t alone. The boy was seething even as his face was turning beet red, the wounds and scars covering his pale skin on display for all to see and the slave collar glittering coldly against his bare neck. 

Slowly, Rosie circled them, looking for…who knows what. A knife strapped to their knees? Food smuggled in their armpits? After a moment, she seemed to decide that whatever she’d been looking for, they didn’t have any of it. She stepped back to the wall and, without warning, reached up and pulled on a long chain.

Cold water, smelling strongly of soap and disinfectant, hit Dylan in the face with torrential force. Next to him, Harper sputtered and choked in surprise.

“Hey!” Harper cried loudly, instinctively bringing his hands up to shield his face. He opened his mouth to complain more but got a mouthful of soapy water instead and started coughing uncontrollably as the water beat down on them without mercy and Dylan watched helplessly. He was still coughing when the water finally cut off several minutes later, leaving them both shivering with cold and looking very much like a pair of drowned rats.

Awkwardly, Dylan patted Harper on the back as the kid spat out water and forcefully controlled his cough. 

Harper’s temper flared and even though he knew better, he couldn’t stop himself. “What is it with you people? Are you too stupid to string enough words together to give a little warning! Like ‘heads up, we’re about to drown you’ or something!” he shouted between gasps for air.

“Harper,” Dylan hissed quietly, his turn to offer warning.

“What!” Harper growled at him. “I’m standing here blind and mostly naked, fresh out of the ‘automatic-slave-drive-through-wash!’ I’m a little PO-ed at the moment! I mean I didn’t expect bubbles and rubber duckies, but enough already! I’m a slave; I _get_ it!”

Harper was yelling and Rosie was looking meaner with every word. It was like watching a bull prepare for the charge, and Dylan knew Harper was in trouble. He could practically see the steam rolling from the woman’s ears. The problem was, Harper _couldn’t_.

For a woman who looked like a small mountain, she moved surprisingly fast. One minute Harper was cursing the world in general and the next he was sputtering for air like a fish on land, a beefy hand clamped around his throat.

“I would shut up if I were you,” she growled, lifting Harper clean off the ground. Truly choking now, Harper clawed uselessly at her grip while his face turned blue and his feet dangled in midair. She grinned evilly as she held him, revealing black, rotting teeth inches from his face.

“Stop it! You’re killing him!” Dylan shouted, grabbing her arm and oddly wondering how awful her breath must smell. He shook his head to clear that particular thought.

She squeezed harder and Harper’s eyes started to roll back in his head. At that point, Dylan threw caution to the wind and proceeded to start throwing punches as well. It was like hitting granite and about as effective, but at least he got her attention. She finally let go, dropping a gasping Harper into a pile on the soggy floor and rounding on Dylan. Two good fists to the head and one solid elbow in the stomach and Dylan was also gasping on his knees.

“Don’t play the hero! One, you’re too ugly and two, I don’t like them!” she said, kicking Dylan for good measure in the shins. Then, satisfied he was dealt with for now, she went back to Harper. Before he could remember how to breathe properly, she grabbed his arm, yanked him to his feet, and soundly boxed his ears several times.

“I talk, you shut up! Got it?”

Still out of breath, Harper couldn’t reply. She slapped him roughly until he managed to nod.

“Good. Now get dressed. We aren’t done yet.”

She went back to holding up the wall and watched dispassionately as Dylan and Harper struggled back into their dripping wet, freezing cold clothes.

“Are you all right?” Dylan asked quietly as they dressed, alarmed at the sight of the huge purple fingerprints springing up on Harper’s neck and the blood dripping from the inside of the boy’s right ear. The last thing Harper needed was to damage his hearing as well! “Can you hear okay?”

Harper nodded in answer but didn’t even attempt speaking yet. Instead he pointed in Dylan’s direction, returning the question.

“I’m fine, Harper,” Dylan replied, holding his ribs and gently massaging his jaw and eye. They were already starting to swell. _Great. Just great._ And the worst part? Rosie hadn’t even gotten wet, let alone a scratch.

“Bet she’d melt if she got a little water on her,” Dylan grumbled just loud enough for Harper to hear. To his relief, Harper cracked a small grin.

Finally dressed, rabbit’s foot still safely hidden much to Dylan’s relief, Rosie gestured curtly for them to follow her again. Dylan once more took Harper’s arm to guide him, leaning in to whisper. “But I think the fact that we both just got the crap beat out of us by someone named _Rosie_ should never leave this room. Certain…um…persons would never let us live it down.”

Harper nodded fervently as Rosie shoved them into a third room and pushed them down on a waiting bench.

Things happened pretty quickly after that. Several other female slaves entered. Heads bowed and cowering in Rosie’s presence, they set upon Dylan and Harper with shears. Harper was overjoyed to be rid of the scratchy beard and the vermin that had taken up residence within; he was not so happy when they went for his hair next. If Rosie’s death grip on his throat hadn’t effectively silenced him for at least several hours, nothing would have kept the protests from leaking out. As it was, Dylan sat enduring the same fate and watching Harper open and close his mouth in silent horror.

They were then ordered to stand and each given a shot, never-you-mind-where, with a huge needle full of who-knows-what. Unprepared, Harper let out a strangled yelp and Dylan blanched. He never could handle needles. Then, properly vaccinated, marked, and poisoned, like good little slaves, they were told to march. Herded into a storeroom, each had one ragged blanket and a mess-kit thrust into their hands. Then they were shoved out the back door and into the camp, bald as babies, bound in chains, and still dripping wet. 

“You’ve missed supper. You’ll have to wait for tomorrow,” Rosie taunted, leaning in the doorway and almost filling it completely. “You’re assigned to barrack 6B. Be quick in getting there; the punishments for dawdling are severe. Roll call is at four AM sharp!” She cackled one more time and was gone, the door slamming in her wake.

Both Harper and Dylan sighed in relief. Nothing in the slave camp could be as bad as what was back in that building!

“I haven’t met anyone that scary since my first grade teacher, and she gave me nightmares for years,” Dylan breathed. 

Harper croaked out something that sounded vaguely like “freak of nature” and massaged his throat.

“Amen,” Dylan agreed. Then he took Harper by the arm once more and sighed. “Come on, Harper. Let’s go find our new home.”


	27. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

_“You have to learn, Cody - you boys, too - the difference between pride and self-respect. Pride is a cheap commodity. Pride leaves a man when he’s been whooped and kicked. Pride goes on and off easy, like that hat. Self-respect, no one can take that from ya, goes clear to the bone.”_

  
\- Teaspoon Hunter, _The Young Riders_

  
*****

  
Before Dylan could move, Harper squirmed out of his hold and latched onto the Captain with his own death grip. Perhaps the young man was afraid Dylan would let go and leave him alone in the dark, or perhaps Harper just felt some small measure of control like this. Either way, since the boy couldn’t really speak at the moment and it didn’t much matter anyway, the captain decided it was pointless to ask. He could feel Harper trembling through his vise-like grip on his arm, whether from cold, from fear, or from both, he couldn't tell, but he knew the boy was trying desperately to hold it together. Harper had been blind for a month now, but adjusting to the dark while being dragged around on a chain is not the same as being truly blind in a place you have never been before, with nothing to anchor or guide you; a place filled with dangers and terrors.

“You ready now, Mr. Harper? The sun’s gone behind the mountains and it’s gonna get real dark real quick. I think we’d better hurry.”

Harper nodded, so Dylan started walking. Not that he had any real idea where he was going.

The coming chill of darkness was settling around the camp, casting shadows everywhere. Waves of hopelessness and despair rolled off the filthy ground, the foreboding buildings, and the huddled, wretched shapes that were vaguely alive. They were men, but they appeared almost ghostly in the gloom, skin shallow and shrunken, with dark eyes that pierced straight through him, ragged clothes fluttering in the chill evening breeze. They looked…faded; like they’d been washed one too many times. Dylan thought he might be able to see right through them if he looked hard enough. The Captain felt an involuntary shiver creep up his spine that had nothing to do with his wet clothes. There were hundreds of them; they sat or crouched in scattered groups around the buildings, blending in with the shadows. Hushed pockets of conversation drifted through the dusk, always fading away as Dylan lead Harper by, pale faces turning to stare at the pair, expressions giving nothing away.

They all had the same shaved heads and horrible prison clothes, but no one else bore the cumbersome chains, Dylan noted with a flash of anger. He could actually understand the reasoning behind the Niets leaving them on him, but to keep Harper chained up was just plain idiotic. The boy couldn’t even see! The clank of said chains was grossly loud in the silence that surrounded the pair as they trudged past one dark building after another. After ten minutes, Harper’s grip on his arm was nearing amputation levels and Dylan had yet to find Barrack 6B.

It was getting darker by the second and every time Dylan stopped and turned them a different direction, he could feel Harper’s heartbeat quicken. They were hopelessly lost, and not only did he know it, but he could tell Harper knew it as well. The kid’s breathing was racing now; much longer and he’d hyperventilate. Dylan swallowed his pride and a small bit of fear; they needed help.

Just then, a shrill whistle suddenly pierced the air, causing them both to jump. Instantly, the pathetic excuses for men stood up and moved about in a jumbled swarm toward the ugly buildings. Curfew, Dylan realized. They had just run out of time.

People were still avoiding them like there was some invisible force-field that was keeping them five feet away. Oh well, what was the saying, if Mohammad won’t go to the mountain...

“Harper, I’ll be back in two seconds, I _promise_. Just stay here, okay?”

He didn’t wait for an answer but pried the boy’s fingers from his arm and dashed to the entrance of the nearest building, determined to get some directions.

Men were moving into the buildings like ants into cracks in the sidewalk. They weren’t running, but there was an air of urgency in their movements.

“Excuse me –” Dylan reached out to one slave, only to be ignored.

“Can you help –”

“Could someone please tell –”

“Look, I need some help here!” Dylan finally lost his patience. A boy, even younger than Harper, stopped short at his shout and looked at him, really looked at him.

“What do you need?” he asked in a whisper, glancing nervously around.

“Thank you!” Dylan muttered, whether to himself, the boy, or any eavesdropping deity, he wasn’t sure. “Can you please tell me where Barrack 6B is? My friend and I need to get there.”

The ragged boy thought for several seconds then pointed across the compound. “It’s on the other side, third building from the gate.” A second whistle blew just as he spoke and the boy paled, something Dylan though amazing considering his already transparent complexion. “Run!” he whispered fervently, then rushed into his own prison.

Dylan didn’t need to be told twice. He dashed back to Harper’s side. The young man was clutching their blankets and mess-kits to his chest and shaking uncontrollably, his eyes jerking around, terrified, as though he could will them to penetrate the darkness. Dylan felt a pang of guilt for leaving him so suddenly alone in his sea of black, but he didn’t have time to apologize right now.

“Come on, Harper!” he said, grabbing the engineer’s arm. The boy jumped like a spooked horse at the unexpected touch and voice, but Dylan kept him upright. “We’ve got to hurry!” he said, tugging him forward into as much of a sprint as their chains and Harper’s ruined feet would allow.

They ran awkwardly across the open area, Dylan dragging Harper along. Arriving at the correct building, they slid to a stop before the door just as a third whistle shattered the night air.

A Niet guard was glaring down at them, blocking the large, open doorway into the prison barrack. Two thoughts struck Dylan at once: first, how terribly young he appeared, and second, how terribly dead they were.

Dylan sucked up all his pride. There was no way he was going to be the cause of Harper getting another beating today.

“Master, we’re sorry! We couldn’t find the right barrack.” he said, lowering his head and trying not to gag on the word his mouth couldn’t help rebelling over. Harper leaned heavily against him, attempting to take some of the pressure off his abused feet, Dylan’s words telling him that they were in some kind of trouble.

The Nietzschean said nothing and grimly, Dylan waited for the blows to fall, or the others to come drag them away for punishment.

Silence stretched for what felt like an eternity until Dylan couldn’t help raising his head and risking a glance at their guard. He was staring at them with an unreadable expression. Finally, he spoke.

“Third whistle is curfew. Next time, don’t be late.” He pushed the pair into the building and once they were in, he pulled a set of sliding iron bars across the doorway and locked it, effectively sealing everyone in. He then walked away into the night.

Dylan couldn’t believe they had escaped punishment, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it. He would ponder their strange luck later; right now they had just been thrust into a prison barrack and his military training was warning him to be alert and do a little recon.

The building was long and dark and filthy. Dylan had been in barns that smelled better. It was constructed of heavy logs stacked cabin-style, with a cold, concrete floor. Roughly one hundred yards long, there were no windows; the only air came through the open doorway, about the width of the Command Deck’s entrance and blocked only by the steel grating the guard had locked in place. Nothing else was used to protect the entrance of the barrack from the elements and a cold, night wind blew through it, chilling the whole building. Rough, wooden bunks lined the wall opposite the door, stacked three high and filled with thin, straw mattresses and barely living shades of men. Dirty piles of straw ran along the other wall, more pitiful boys and men huddled in their blankets on top of them. Two smoking lamps hung from the ceiling at either end of the barrack, barely giving enough light to highlight the wretched room.

It was quite possibly the most horrible place Dylan had ever been.

“Where…”

The harshly croaked word jerked Dylan’s attention back to his friend. The boy tried again.

“Where...(cough)…are we?” Harper finally managed to croak the words out past his abused throat.

“Home sweet home,” the captain muttered depressed, still not sure this was real.

Harper was clinging to his arm again with his sore right hand, and Dylan could still feel him trembling with cold and fright. Looking closer in the dim light, the captain was startled to see a simmering rage as well, only made stronger by frustration at his lack of communication.

“Don’t…do…(cough)…again!” the young man seethed. “Ever!” His voice broke and cracked but his expression was furious.

“Don’t do what, Harper?” Dylan asked quietly, confused and not sure what he’d done wrong.

During the last couple hours, Harper had been humiliated, half strangled, and pushed out the back door into a huge, undefined, black void where he’d been dragged around and then abruptly abandoned by his only friend and connection to the unseen world. He was tired, cold, wet, hurting, and terrified and he couldn’t do anything about it, so it all unintentionally boiled over in rage directed at Dylan.

“Leave…no (cough) warning…nothing for me…to feel! (Cough) Didn’t know …where I was!”

“I’m sorry, Harper, but we were running out of time,” Dylan said, finally understanding what he was upset about. “I had to do something quick.”

“You…could have…told me! Or…given something…to hold onto!”

Suddenly, Dylan felt very bad. The boy was right. He jumped so quickly into captain mode – he couldn’t help – and as such he expected his crew to be fit, capable, and able to respond and adapt to anything at a moment’s notice. So far, they’d never disappointed him. But he wasn’t a captain anymore, at least not in any sense that counted. He wasn’t on his ship and Harper was anything but fit. Thinking like a High Guard Captain wasn’t always going to work in this insane world of no rules and no reason. Expecting Harper to be his quick-thinking, spunky engineer wouldn’t work either. Right now, Harper was just a scared, twenty-three year old kid who had been pushed back into the nightmare of his past. He was still brilliant, but he was also bound, beaten, bruised and blind. That blindness made this experience just as new and terrifying for Harper as it was for him, probably more so. Old rules and expectations between boss and crew, captain and engineer no longer worked or applied. Circumstance dictated that new rules be made.

“You’re right, Harper, and I’m sorry. I’m new at this, too, and I’m still learning what to do and how best to help you without being too overbearing. Sometimes, I just forget and don’t think, and I’m sorry. We’ll have to talk about how you want to deal with this and what you want me to do, okay? But right now I think we should get out of the doorway and figure out how life works in our new home. Can we talk about this later?”

The anger drained from Harper’s face and he nodded wearily.

“Excuse me?”

Both men started at the new voice and Dylan turned to face the speaker. The slave was pale and gaunt, like everyone else, dressed in worn and dirty prison clothes and scuffed leather shoes, but he smiled kindly and his eyes were clear behind a pair of scratched, bent, old-fashioned eyeglasses. He appeared to be around Dylan’s age, three-hundred years excluded, but then it was hard to tell in this place that aged men prematurely.

“You’re new here, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

“What gave it away?” Dylan returned the smile, grateful to find one friendly face even if it was only a fellow slave.

“Many things,” the slave laughed softly, “but mostly because you look like you just came from a run-in with Rosie.” He pointed at their soaked clothes, newly shorn heads, and the ever darkening ring of welts around Harper’s throat.

“Yeah, we met her,” Dylan grimaced, touching his own swollen eye. “Can’t say I’d put her on my Christmas list, however.”

The other slave grinned again, and Dylan tried not to notice how that act stretched the paper-thin skin across his protruding cheek bones.

“My name is Simon,” he said.

“Dylan Hunt,” Dylan returned, dropping both the captain and the handshake. “And this is –”

“Seamus,” Harper croaked out before Dylan could.

“…Seamus,” Dylan finished awkwardly, never having called the young man that before.

Simon nodded. “I’d say welcome, but who wants to be welcomed to this?” he motioned to the room around them.

“Well, thanks for the gesture anyway. You’re the first person who has willingly spoken to us since we were turned out into the camp,” Dylan told him truthfully.

“Don’t judge us harshly,” Simon asked wearily, taking Dylan by the arm and steering them out of the open doorway. “Life is hard here, very hard. It requires more energy than many have to simply find the will to keep living; most have none to waste on others. We’re good people, we’re just tired and beaten, forgotten souls. Stay here too long and you can forget you’re human and should act according.”

Eyes were staring at them out of the gloom as Simon spoke, and Dylan gazed into their dull depths with new understanding. _So many forgotten people, of all ages_. Boys who couldn’t have been more than twelve – _children_ locked away and worked to death before they even knew what life really meant. Others who should have been fathers, brothers, husbands. Here were also old men who should have been retired and enjoying the fruits of a life of hard work, instead left to wither until they broke like brittle leaves. All of them, crammed together – working, existing, waiting to die and be done.

“How long have you been here?” Dylan asked softly, morbidly curious.

“Long enough to forget how long I’ve been here,” Simon answered firmly, “to forget there’s anything other than what’s inside these fences. And it would be better for you both to forget soon as well. In here, hope can drive you insane.”

One by one, the pairs of watching eyes drifted off the newcomers. Some simply closed in exhausted sleep, but in other places, muted conversations quietly filled the stale air and life returned to “normal” in the barrack.

Harper hadn’t said a word since he gave his name, but his breathing had evened out a bit and his head was cocked in the way Dylan had come to know meant he was listening, doing his best to keep up and stay on top of the situation and therefore do his part to help out. Still, the kid’s feet must be killing him by now, and his grip on Dylan’s arm was weakening. To all outward appearances, the hand was healed, but Dylan knew Harper hid the pain using it actually caused him, or how quickly it tired.

“Where should we put our mess-kits? And where can we sleep?” Dylan asked their new friend.

“You’re welcome to share my bunk. There are only two of us in it right now.”

 _Only_ two? Dylan glanced at the small, hard bunks and wouldn’t have thought them big enough for one person, let alone for four to cram in!

“As for your dishes,” Simon continued, unaware of Dylan’s shock, “just keep them with you. You’ll need them in the morning.”

“Which bunk is yours?”

Simon led them a little way down the barrack to a set of bunks that looked just like any of the others. “Here, top one.”

The base of the highest bunk was easily level with the top of Harper’s head. Dylan sighed. They would never be able to climb up there with their stupid shackles on, not to mention the engineer’s crippled hands and hurting feet.

“Simon, thanks for the offer, but,” he held out his chained wrists to help make his point, “I don’t think we’ll be able to make it up there.”

“Why weren’t those taken off when you arrived? Slaves in the mines aren’t kept in irons; makes them lousy miners and cuts down the Ubers’ profits.”

“It’s a long story, but we’re kinda special cases,” Dylan offered tiredly, trying to run a hand through his hair out of habit only to be shocked when his hand met with smooth skin. “Anywhere else to sleep? Somewhere lower?”

They returned the way they had come, almost to the doorway again, and Simon gestured to a filthy pile of straw against the wall. “It’s closest to the door,” he said apologetically, “but everywhere else is full and the others are reluctant to share with strangers.”

“It’s great, we’ll take it,” Dylan said, trying not to gag at the smell. He took the mess-kits from Harper and stashed them between the straw and the wall, forcing himself not to grimace as he touched their new “bed.” “Give me the blankets, Harper, and I’ll spread them out. Then we should get some sleep. I’m guessing this is a crack-of-dawn kind of establishment, am I right?” he asked Simon over his shoulder.

“I haven’t seen dawn in years,” Simon replied sadly. “By that time, we’ve been in the mines for hours.”

“Lovely,” Dylan muttered, taking the blankets Harper held out to him and spreading them on the damp straw.

Harper, meanwhile, was tired of not knowing what this place was like. If he was going to be living here indefinitely, he was going to know his way around. He held his arms out before him and slid his aching feet slowly forward across the rough concrete until his fingers touched the log wall. Then he paused for a moment until he felt the cold breeze blow across his face and turned his body in that direction. Stepping carefully to avoid tripping on the straw mound or their blankets, he painstakingly felt his way along the wall until he found the first bar blocking the open prison door.

Dylan simply watched, choosing not to interfere until Harper called for him or needed help.

“What’s he doing?” Simon asked, his expression puzzled as he observed Harper touch each of the cold steel bars, his lips moving silently as his chains clanked harshly against the metal.

“Counting the bars, so he knows how many there are,” Dylan replied sadly. “He’s learning his way around.”

Simon’s dark eyebrows rose in confusion and Dylan sighed.

“Simon, Harper – Seamus,” he corrected himself purposefully, “Seamus is blind.”

“Blind?” the slave asked in disbelief.

“Yeah,” Dylan replied bitterly as Harper started to hesitantly hobble across the floor, pacing out the distance between the barred door and the bunks on the other side of the room.

“And they sent him here! Barefoot and in chains?” Simon was incredulous.

Dylan said nothing; there was nothing to say. After a moment he felt a hand flutter on his shoulder and looked over to see Simon standing right next to him. “This won’t be easy, you know, keeping your friend alive here. It’s impossible, really,” he shook his head again in disbelief.

“Yeah, well I don’t care, I intend to do it. What am I supposed to do, just sit by and watch him die?” Dylan said, anger rising.

“No, of course not,” Simon hurried to assure him. “I never meant to imply that; you interrupted before I could finish. I was saying it will be very difficult, but I’ll help you, both of you, all I can,” he said firmly, catching Dylan’s eyes and holding them with his own.

“Why?” the captain couldn’t help asking. “Why are you helping us, even talking to us? You’re just as tired as the rest; why bother?”

“Because that is the Way of the Divine,” Simon replied with a small smile. “Now, get some rest. You will both need all your strength and more to get through tomorrow. Believe me, there will be many more nights for Seamus to learn his way around.”

*****

Sometime later, Harper and Dylan lay on their disgusting pile of straw, wrapped in their blankets and huddled close together to keep warm in their still damp clothes. The lamps had burned out long ago and the morning wake-up call couldn’t be many hours off. The barrack was completely silent except for the sound of ragged breathing and the occasional harsh cough.

“Boss?” Harper whispered hoarsely. His voice was still scratchy, but at least he could speak again.

“Yeah?” Dylan replied quietly. Neither one of them were asleep, there was no point in pretending.

“You asleep?”

“Would I be answering you if I was?”

A slightly embarrassed “oh” escaped followed by a long span of silence.

“Mr. Harper?” Dylan broke the stillness as he shifted onto his back to stare at the blackness of the unseen ceiling.

“Yeah, Boss?”

“Why _Seamus_?”

There was an even longer pause this time.

“It’s my name,” the quiet voice finally answered.

“I know, but why not Harper, when you’ve always insisted that we call you Harper? Why don’t you go by Seamus anyway?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Yes, I do.”

There was another pause as Harper shifted carefully to face the ceiling as well and opened his eyes, although it was only a token gesture. He moved slowly, the skin on his back still raw and tender. Settled, he finally spoke.

“Seamus was what my family called me: my parents, my grandparents, my aunts and uncles and cousins. I guess that’s why sometimes Beka or Trance gets away with calling me that; they’re like family. Growing up I was always Seamus, or more often, Shay. But, then my family died, one by one, and a little bit of Seamus died with each of them, until there was not really anything left of him. Seamus got left behind on Earth and Harper went with Beka into space.”

Dylan listened intently to Harper’s quiet words, giving them careful thought. It wasn’t often the young man spoke of his past, and never so profoundly.

“That explains why you go by Harper now,” he said, nodding, “but I still don’t understand why you are suddenly asking people to call you Seamus here, of all places.”

Harper sighed. “It’s complicated, and I’m not sure it makes a whole lot of sense, even to me…”

“I don’t have anywhere else to be right now,” Dylan reminded him with a shrug. “Try me.”

The engineer brought his hands up to rest on the top of his smooth scalp and raised his knees up so they were bent. His voice was quite with a far-away quality when he spoke again. “The Ubers on Earth, they make a point of never giving up an ounce of respect to a Kludge, especially one who’s a slave. There are no Mr. Harper’s or Mr. anyone’s; it’s only Jim or Bill or Nate, or worse - _boy_ , no matter how old you are. So, when I became a slave I also became simply Seamus. Not Seamus Zelazny Harper, or even Seamus Harper, just Seamus – Felix’s slave. My identity ceased to exist, my last name was gone, and the Ubers tried hard to keep it that way. They said Seamus like they would say the word _chair_ , only used to tell one slave from another and to show how worthless and stupid we were compared to them.”

He paused, but Dylan sensed he wasn’t done and waited patiently for him to come back from the memories enough to finish.

“Being a slave was…not the high point of my life, I can tell you,” Harper said with a vague smirk. “By the time I got away, I hated the name Seamus. I never wanted to be him again. And I hated the Ubers even more for taking even _that_ good thing away from me. Being called Seamus reminds me that technically, I still _belong_ to someone, like a shirt, or a chest of drawers. Beka doesn’t understand that, so it doesn’t bother me when she uses my name, because she’s doing it out of friendship. Others, however, like Bobby, _did_ understand. When he used it, he was being deliberately condescending and arrogant.”

He paused again, giving his still strained voice a short rest.

“Anyway, long story short, Seamus belongs on Earth with all the crappy, and the few good, memories from there. But, in true poetic Harper justice, look where I am again? Back to being a groveling slave once more, Seamus The Nothing. I guess I figured I’d just contain all the bad memories to one name.”

It made sense, Dylan realized, in the horribly awful way their new world made sense, and he felt rather honored that Harper had felt safe in confiding all that to him. “So, would you like me to call you Seamus now?” he asked tactfully.

“Naw, you don’t have to. Gotta have something to remind me this crap isn’t the only option out there. I just didn’t want the Ubers using it, or really the other slaves. Gotta keep one name that has a little self-respect.”

“Okay. Harper it is, then. Although, our new bunkmates might think you have something of an identity crisis, with the two different names and all.”

“Who says I don’t?” Harper gave a small impish smile that Dylan wasn’t entirely sure was all a joke. “But anyway, the other slaves won’t really care one way or the other. They’re too busy trying to stay alive, just like us.”

“Very true. And speaking of staying alive, Mr. Harper,” Dylan deliberately used the title, trying to show Harper that he at least thought the boy worthy of respect, “we should probably try and sleep. I think tomorrow will be a very, very long day.”

“Amen,” Harper sighed. Closing his eyes, he brought his shackled hands down under the thin blanket once again and pulled it to his chin, trying to get warm. Soon, despite the discomfort and the cold, Dylan’s snores were filling the air. But beside him, Harper still didn’t sleep. He lay awake staring into nothingness and wondering just exactly what would happen to him in a few short hours.


	28. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

_If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken  
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,  
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,  
And stoop and build ‘em up with worn-out tools;_

_If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew  
To serve your turn long after they are gone,  
And so hold on when there is nothing in you  
Except the will which says to them: “Hold on!”_

\- Rudyard Kipling, _IF---_

*****

A shrill whistle jerked Harper from his sleep and he sat up quickly. _Too_ quickly. His limbs snapped harshly against forgotten restraints, and his still healing and aching body protested the impulsive movement violently. He couldn’t stop the groan from escaping his dry lips. 

It took him a moment to get his brain in gear; to remember where he was, why he hurt so badly, why his hands and feet had such a limited range of motion, and why everything was so freakin’ dark. But not that long. The smells and sounds of the prison slammed into him and he remembered. Every day it was easier, came quicker. It frightened him to realize that. Would he soon forget what it had been like to see? Would he wake up expecting the all-encompassing darkness, accept it as normal? Would he become so used to this horrible life that he’d forget he had once been free? Already he’d learned to dismiss the ever-present twisting knot of hunger in his stomach, falling back on old habits he’d hoped never to revive. It was scary how easy it came! As much as he preached to Dylan the need to think and act as a slave, Harper realized he desperately didn’t want to really accept it, to lose himself to that life once more.

As he sat there thinking, all around him he could hear the sounds of the other slaves getting up quickly, pulling on shoes, gathering mess-kits. He knew he should move, too; it would only make life worse if he drew more attention to himself by being late, but he was so tired. It felt like he’d only been asleep for minutes, which, he reflected, was probably true.

“Harper.”

Harper felt the captain’s hand on his shoulder and it saddened him that he didn’t even jump at the touch.

“Harper, everyone’s lining up at the door with their mess-kits. I think we should join them.”

“Sure, whatever,” Harper muttered gloomily, not at all excited to find out what his job in this camp was gonna be. “Could ya give me a hand up?”

Harper held out his arms and Dylan grasp him by his forearms, pulling him carefully to his feet. There was silence and something about it told Harper he was being studied. 

“What?”

“Did you sleep at all?” Dylan asked gently.

“Not really.” There was no point in denying it. 

Dylan sighed and led the young man to join the other slaves waiting for their prison to be unlocked.

The sound of the iron bars being pushed out of the way told Harper their day was really beginning.

“Come on, I’ll show you where the latrines are,” a new hand on his shoulder announced Simon’s presence at their side. “But we have to hurry. We’re only allotted ten minutes.”

“What’s with the hats everyone’s sporting and why didn’t we get any?” Dylan asked, cluing Harper in to the fact their wardrobes didn’t quite match everyone else’s.

“You made Rosie mad. She probably purposefully forgot,” Simon replied. “Don’t worry, you’ll get them later, I’m sure. Now come on, we don’t have much time.”

“The latrines” turned out to be five long buildings consisting of forty or so open holes in boards set over one huge, foul-smelling pit. _Privacy_? Yeah right. Being blind was a plus here; he could only imagine how hard this was on Dylan. _Good ol’ communal latrines. Breed camaraderie, togetherness, and infectious diseases_. Harper shuddered.

Next, Simon led them to the center of the large, open compound that filled the middle of the camp. He felt Simon pull him into a position sandwiched between the two bigger men and Dylan handed him his mess-kit.

“We line up here for breakfast, always by barrack. A barracks on the left side of the compound, B on the right, in numerical order. And since I’ve got you standing by me, make sure you always get in this same place in line. This is your position forever now and the Ubers will punish disorder, no matter what the excuse.”

Harper slowly shuffled forward in the line as he listened to Simon explain, Dylan’s hand never leaving his shoulder.

“We have forty-five minutes to get breakfast, eat it, wash our dishes in the big barrels at the end of the serving area, and return them to our barrack. Then it’s roll-call. Again, we line up by barrack in rows five deep, same order as now. That’s where we get our assignments for the day and any equipment we might need. It’s also where any discipline or punishments are meted out. And roll-call lasts as long as the Nietzscheans want it to. Usually, it’s over in fifteen minutes or so, but sometimes the Ubers feel the need to make us stand there for hours, even days, never mind the sun or weather. And you must stay standing, no matter what. That’s very important, okay.”

“Got it,” Dylan replied, liking this place less and less.

“Talking is permitted during meals, like now, or while working, but never, _ever_ during roll-call. Slaves have been shot for talking in roll-call.”

Harper tried to listen and absorb everything that Simon was telling them, know it was important, but it was hard. All around him he could hear the rustling, whispering, and coughing of hundreds of people – people he couldn’t see. He could feel Dylan guiding him along but he had no idea where he was going, or what he was supposed to do when he got there. His feet were throbbing as he shuffled forward, and he had to concentrate to keep from tripping on the chain that connected them and dragged on the ground. Worst of all, he could hear the shouts and orders of the Nietzscheans floating above all the rest but didn’t know where they were or if they were yelling at him. It was all so disorienting and confusing and if Dylan hadn’t kept his hand in a reassuring grip on his shoulder, he probably would have panicked. 

“Here,” Simon said suddenly, interrupting Harper’s thoughts. He felt the other man take his hands and turn them. “We’re almost at the serving table. Put your bowl in one hand and hold your spoon and cup in the other.”

Harper tried to do as he suggested but his left hand refused to cooperate and he ended up dropping half his dishes. Frustrated, he swore strongly. 

“Harper, it’s okay,” Dylan said soothingly, reaching down to retrieve the dishes. “Brace what you can’t hold against your chest and I’ll help you if you need it,” he said, putting the tin dishes back into his hands.

“What happened to your hand?” Simon asked, his voice cautious and curious at the same time, as if he’d just noticed the crippled limb.

“Felix,” Harper said darkly, not in the mood to get into a heart-to-heart discussion of crucifixion and its effects on the body. He struggled to arrange his dishes as Dylan had said, chained hands not helping one bit.

“I’ll explain later,” he heard Dylan whisper over his head to Simon, but then they were at the serving table and all his concentration was needed to keep his food from ending up on the ground as well. Especially since Dylan no longer had a free hand to guide him with, and he had to rely on the man’s voice and his own sixth sense of knowing where the captain was to navigate.

Breakfast turned out to be a tin cup full of water and more of the thick, grey gruel that tasted like sawdust and gym socks, which they ate sitting in the dirt. 

“Describe the compound to me, please, Boss?” Harper asked, trying to keep his mind off how foolish he must look, crouched in the dirt and trying to eat a meal he couldn’t even see or hold onto properly. He had a feeling more of it ended up on his clothes than in his mouth and his face flushed with shame. At least he made sure to not spill the water. Water was like gold to a slave.

“Harper, just eat and don’t worry about that right now,” Dylan said from next to him. Harper could smell the stall technique a mile away.

“Dylan, don’t take advantage of my blindness to try and shield me from unpleasant things. I need to know.”

He heard the captain sigh. “It’s big and dirty and full of filthy slaves just like us, okay? The food’s disgusting and it’s served out of big pots by ragged, dead-eyed female slaves, and there are Nietzschean guards crawling all over.”

“And…” Harper urged, sensing there was something Dylan was holding back.

“And there are cages, and stocks, and chains, and enough torture devises scattered about to make a Spanish Inquisitor cry with delight,” Dylan gave in. “Think Nazi concentration camp with a medieval twist and you have it just about right.”

“Figures...” Harper muttered, not at all surprised. 

They didn’t talk about it anymore. Simon was once again urging them to hurry, and before Harper really had time to figure out the routine, his dishes were “washed” and stowed back by their blankets, and he was once again standing in a line between Dylan and Simon. This time, however, he was facing forward and not moving, with enough distance around him that he couldn’t physically touch either man. He wanted to call out to make sure Dylan was still there, but remembered Simon’s warning and didn’t dare.

He could hear the crunch of many pairs of boots on gravel and figured it was probably the Nietzscheans roaming around, inspecting their property. They shouted orders like “bucket line!” or “picks and shovels!” to various groups, apparently the assignments for the day. 

The ex-engineer tensed when he heard several pairs of boots approach and stop right in front of where Dylan and he were standing.

“Ah, I see our newest guests have made themselves right at home.” Harper recognized the cold voice of Adoniram. “But your uniforms appear to be rather incomplete.”

For the briefest of moments, Harper envisioned them presenting him with a lovely pair of warm, sturdy boots. 

_The hunger must really be getting to me if I’m thinking like that…_

“Prisoners 6557 and 6558 step forward!” Adoniram ordered in a loud voice, making sure the whole camp could hear and know what was going on. Hesitantly, Harper shuffled forward in his chains, hearing Dylan do the same next to him.

Something was thrust into his hands. Startled, he grabbed at it to keep it from falling in the dirt. It was smallish and round, made of coarse, rough material. _Ah, his hat._ His fingers found the front and he imagined it must look something like an old newsie hat. He used his right hand to slip it over his bald head.

 _What next?_ he wondered. The sound of more chains clanking answered that question. Beside him, Dylan groaned and only barely managed to bite back a frustrated comment.

Uncaring hands were suddenly touching him, attaching more metal to his already weary frame. When the guard finally stepped back, Harper now had an iron ring, rather like the collar around his neck, attached around his shrunken waist. It rested heavily against his hip bones, bruising, and a long chain ran from it to connect with the middle of his leg shackles. He knew the purpose; they were supposed to use the new chain to pull up and carry the slack in their leg irons when they walked, so they didn’t trip over them; a twisted form of Nietzschean practicality for slaves working in the mines. He supposed he should be thankful, as those unseen chains had sent him sprawling more than once, but all he could really think about was how much more uncomfortable this was, and how heavy they felt. 

Being a slave really stunk.

“6557, you will join the bucket line with the rest of your barrack today,” Adoniram continued, addressing Dylan. “Step back in line.” Harper listened to the clank as Dylan obeyed. He could guess at the look of pure hatred and fury the captain was attempting to keep off his face and knew the man was probably harboring Tyr-like thoughts of revenge at the moment.

Harper waited for his assignment, but instead felt rough hands grab him by the arm and propel him forward, away from the line. He couldn’t help tripping as he tried to keep up.

“Slaves!” Adoniram bellowed, dragging Harper beside him as he circled in front of the rows of prisoners, displaying his catch. “I want you all to look! Look at this pathetic excuse for a Kludge! Look at what happens when you defy your betters, reject their kind care! This boy used to be whole, now look at his crippled hands, observe him as he limps! He used to have sight, now he’s blind! He ran from his master, thinking he was smart, but no slave is that smart! No slave can escape! And now he’s here, condemned, to live a life in chains surrounded by darkness and pain! Remember him, and don’t make the same mistake!”

Harper’s face burned, whether out of anger or shame, he didn’t know. What he did know was neither Dylan nor Tyr had anything on the thoughts _he_ was harboring toward Adoniram – and Felix – right then.

The Nietzschean captain paraded him around for a few more minutes, allowing everyone a good, long look, then dragged him back and dumped him in his line.

“You get cart duty. And you get it today, tomorrow, and forever, so I suggest you learn to like it.” Adoniram laughed as he walked away. 

A whistle blew and roll call was over. The sound of clothes rustling said that the slaves were allowed to move again, and, suddenly, Dylan was at his side.

“Come on, Harper, get up off the ground. Don’t let them win.”

“I hate them!” he seethed, sitting in the dirt, the extra ten pounds of chains hanging from him feeling like an anchor. “I hate them all!”

“I know. I do too, but right now we gotta stay alive,” Dylan urged, pulling him to his feet when he made no attempt to get up.

“I hate them for being able to treat people like this! It’s wrong and someday I’m gonna make them pay!” Harper continued to rant, a month’s worth of anger boiling over. “They’re just stupid, dumb uber freaks and someday I want them to know that Seamus Zelazny Harper is not a slave!”

Harper felt Dylan take his arm and he let him lead him forward. He must sound like a crazy man, hissing with rage, but Dylan said nothing, and even if he had, Harper was too angry to care.

*****

The mine was actually many smaller mines, all connected by one, long shaft that ran down the middle. Slaves were expected to chip away at the walls and tunnels with picks and load the smaller rocks into buckets that they handed off to each other until they reached the main shaft. A small railroad gage ran down the center of that shaft and wooden carts waited there to receive the broken rocks and pull them to the surface, where more slaves unloaded them into wagons that were taken to another slave camp for processing. Now, in the absence of any electricity or modern technology, muscle was needed to move those carts. The obvious choice was pack animals, but for some odd reason, animals have a dislike of toiling for hours underground in close quarters. They require someone to watch and guide them. Not wanting to waste any slaves, the Nietzscheans, in their infinite wisdom, just eliminated the middle-man and put the slaves to work pulling and pushing the heavy carts in the animals’ stead.

The result was that Harper found himself fulfilling his life-long dream of being a mule. Partnered with another slave, he was forced to strain up and down the mine shaft pushing and pulling tremendously heavy loads of rock on feet that had never quite healed and with hands that ached horribly at best and refused to work at worst. There was a wooden handle that jutted out in front of the cart connected to it by another tongue of wood and there was just enough space for a slave to stand behind it and push, as Harper soon learned. He was also strapped into a sort of harness that fitted across his chest and attached to the cart, giving him added leverage against the weight of the cart and taking some of the pressure from his ruined hands. After only an hour at his new job, Harper had to resort to using his left wrist to push against the handle because he couldn’t endure the agony using his left hand caused him.

Cart duty, he quickly realized, was just a sort of prolonged, slow torture; the job every slave hated the most. And they only had to do it once every two weeks or so; Harper was going to have to endure it every single freakin’ day for the rest of his life, unless Dylan thought up some magnificent scheme to get them out of there. 

In the moments when he wasn’t panting in pain or ready to faint from exhaustion, Harper did have to admit he could understand the Uber’s reasoning, beyond the constant torture and punishment part, that is. The carts were fixed to unchanging, unmoving tracks, and he himself was harnessed to the cart. It was probably the only job in the mines a person could do without sight and not endanger himself or those around him. Once he learned how to pull his chains up and tuck the slack around his new, shiny belt to clear his path, and his tired, swollen feet memorized the route, he was set.

That didn’t mean he was lining up to express his undying thanks to the Nietzscheans for their thoughtfulness and foresight any time soon because, frankly, his new job stank big-time. The mines were freezing, but he had to strain so hard his body was covered in sweat despite the temperature. All except for his feet and hands; they were ice cold. Only when one of the youngest slaves came around twice a day with a dipper of water was he allowed to rest, and then only for ten minutes. Otherwise, he worked straight through, up and back, up and back, one agony filled hour after another with the Nietzschean guard’s whip lashing at his back, arms, legs, and ankles. 

Fourteen hours later, Harper staggered blindly out of the mine with the rest of the slaves, too tired to even call for Dylan. He simply waited for the captain to come find him and lead him to their place for evening roll-call. When Dylan did find him, Harper heard the deep weariness in the older man’s voice and knew the day had been hard on his friend as well.

He stumbled through roll-call, supper – or the watery soup and hard lump of bread that passed for it – and evening clean-up in a daze. The time between clean-up and curfew, usually about two hours, was _graciously_ given to the slaves as free-time. Harper only knew one thing he wanted to do with that time. He asked Dylan to guide him back to their barrack where he promptly collapsed onto their filthy bed. Not that the captain seemed to mind. Harper heard him sink slowly down next to him with a bone-weary sigh.

“Don’t worry,” Harper heard Simon telling them gently as his eyes fell shut. “It sounds horrible to say, but it will get better. The first week is always the hardest. You’ll see.”

All Harper could think as he drifted into a painful sleep was that he desperately didn’t want to go back. He just wanted to go home.


	29. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

_“Your heart is where your duty lies, son. Your head is just along to help with the driving.”_

\- Fraser Sr., _Due South_

*****

“So, what are we going to do?”

Rommie stopped and turned to the projection of herself on the screen in the corridor.

“What do you mean what are we going to do?” How can you even ask that?” she demanded of herself.

Her hologram flickered into existence, completing the triad. “We were given a direct order from a leader of the Commonwealth. We can’t disobey that; it would be worthy of a court-martial.”

“I don’t really care!” Rommie said forcefully.

“We think you’re too emotionally involved,” Holo-Rommie said.

“You bet I’m emotionally involved! It’s Dylan and Harper!”

“There’s no real evidence that Harper is still alive,” Andromeda pointed out logically. “You analyzed the images.”

Yes, she had analyzed the horrible images. She’d been the one who found there was more than one stored on the flexi. She’d accidentally pushed a key on it and the awful image of her young engineer and friend hanging from a wooden cross had been replaced by one equally as disturbing. This picture was a close up of a calloused hand, fingers curled in agony toward the large, iron spike driven through it, pinning it to the wooden beam it lay on. Tears had filled her eyes as she saw it. That hand had built her physical body, had fixed and repaired her, taken care of her, and Felix gleefully hammered a spike through it. Then there was the image of a tortured back, skin torn and bloody from the lash, new wounds covering the layers of old scars she was one of the few people knew existed. Or the one of bare feet gouged by the harsh wires that bound them tightly to a cross, blood running freely. The view of Harper’s head hanging limply forward, eyes closed, too weak, in pain, and close to death to even raise it. 

Darn right she was emotionally involved!

“Those images were real; that was Harper,” Andromeda continued when she didn’t answer.

She knew that, too. She’d done one test after another, hoping to prove them faked, but to her growing horror they had all passed. She had no choice but to admit someone had crucified her engineer. But she also trusted her crew. They had something she didn’t: instinct. Harper still wore his clothes, complete with rabbit’s foot, when he was on that cross. They had been presented with his clothes sans rabbit’s foot. Therefore, someone had to have taken Harper down from his horrible, tortured position on the cross before they could have been removed and sent away and somehow during that time, the rabbit’s foot disappeared. If Beka thought that was because Harper was still alive, she was willing to trust that gut feeling.

“And there’s no evidence that he’s dead, either,” she snapped at the other two. “I get the feeling you _want_ him dead!” 

“Of course not,” Holo-Rommie answered. “He’s our engineer too, remember. We just think we should approach this with a clear head.”

“I am. If he was dead, why didn’t they send us his body instead of just a few pictures and his clothes as proof? And besides, Dylan is still out there as well. If they are alive, those pictures tell us that at least Harper is desperate for medical attention. We’re wasting time.”

“But that doesn’t change the fact you are going, and letting our acting captain and crew go, against a direct order from the Commonwealth! That goes against everything we’re programmed to believe in,” Holo-Rommie said, crossing her arms.

“We’re also programmed to protect our captain at all costs, correct?” Rommie shot back, her hands on her hips.

“Yes, and right now that captain is Beka Valentine, whom we think is acting rashly and in haste while you are doing nothing to stop her,” Andromeda replied coolly.

“Rashly and in haste?” Rommie repeated. “I think our internal time-clock must be off! She’s waited, planned, and thought about this for at least four days, all while she’s really just wanted to rush off and look for our missing crew. For Beka, that’s positively sluggish.”

“Still, we have been given orders, Commonwealth orders, and our crew with their sometimes questionable backgrounds don’t always realize the importance of following those orders,” Holo-Rommie tried to point out calmly. “Perhaps Tri-Jema knows something we don’t about Dylan’s situation and what he’s doing, and having us rush in would put him in danger. Besides, he is rather capable of taking care of himself.”

“Do you really believe that – that Tri-Jema is just trying to protect him?” Rommie asked, forcing herself to stay cool and rational. Neither one of her alter-egos answered. “That’s what I thought. And those images Felix gave us prove that however capable our boys might be of taking care of themselves, they aren’t doing a very good job this time.”

She paused to once again control her emotions, lightly cursing Harper for programming them so well.

“Look, the Commonwealth was established to bring peace, justice, and enlightenment to the universe, right?”

Both agreed.

“Well, I fail to see how leaving Dylan a political prisoner when he could do so much to help that goal is in the Commonwealth’s best interests. I also fail to see how condemning Harper to a life of pain and slavery fits that creed. And don’t try and tell me it’s not our concern because technically Harper’s been a slave all along because we all know that’s just plain wrong. The old Commonwealth would never have stood by and let this happen no matter the risks involved. So let’s say I’m just choosing to obey older, long-standing orders and going over a few heads for moral reasons. Dylan would do it in a heartbeat, so I don’t want you, me, us…” she shook her head in frustration, “ _anyone_ getting in my way, understood?”

Conversation finished, she marched off, right through her hologram because…well…she could. Arguing with herself always gave her such a headache. 

And with a brain the size of a planet, that was saying something.

*****

“All right, now that Rommie’s finally here, I think we’re ready to get cracking,” Beka said, trying to sound official and feeling very out of place while doing it.

“Sorry, I had a bit of a disagreement…um…with myself,” Rommie muttered, taking a seat.

Tyr raised his eyebrows at her and breathed something about “schizophrenia” and “committed.” Rommie chose to ignore him at this time. She turned her attention to Beka, except for the .005% of it that was currently reprogramming the temperature of Tyr’s shower. 

“Right,” Beka shook her head. “Anyway, let’s focus on the reason for this meeting: getting Dylan and Harper back.”

“I repeat that there is no solid proof the boy is still alive and persisting in believing it, while comforting, is foolhardy and sentimental,” Tyr spoke up.

“Well, I agree with Beka,” Trance jumped in. “I think Harper could still be alive and I think we need to go look for him and Dylan. Dylan would do it for any of us.”

“Which is exactly what we’re going to do,” Beka said firmly, glaring at Tyr. “I just had to spend some time figuring out how to do it without getting us all on the Commonwealth’s hit list. We have enough troubles as it is.” Beka rubbed her forehead. This being in charge thing was harder than it looked, at least here on this ship. On the _Maru_ , she’d had no trouble running her own ship and controlling her crew. She’d said jump, they’d asked how high. But on the _Maru_ she didn’t have to worry about pesky little things like chain of command and proper clarification. The only time she troubled herself with rules and regulations was when she had to figure out how to avoid them. It was all so much more complicated this time around.

“So, here’s what we’re gonna do,” she continued. “Tyr, you and Trance are gonna stay here on the _Andromeda_ and take care of business, just like good little Commonwealth employees should. Rommie and I are gonna take the _Maru_ and search this galaxy from top to bottom until we find our missing friends.”

There was a moment of silence then all three started talking at once, just as she’d predicted they would. 

“You should stay here; you’re the acting captain, they will look for you – ”

“I will not stay behind and play babysitter to a schizophrenic warship and a golden pixie – ”

“Beka! It’s so dangerous! Surely we should all stick together – ”

She let them sputter and growl until their voices drifted off into silence.

“Are you all finished now?” she asked with a small smile. No one answered. “Good. Now, let me explain. First, I realize I should probably stay on the _Andromeda_ as I’m the acting captain, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that just wouldn’t work. I have at least six weeks of vacation time stored up from the last three years; I’m taking it now. If the Commonwealth wants to argue with that, they’ll have to fight their own regulations to do it. And besides, for all they know, I could be spending it sipping martinis on some pleasure planet.”

She turned to Tyr. “I know you think you should lead this rescue mission, and I admit you’re probably the most qualified person on board to do it, but you’re not going. Thanks to your inability to keep your hands off other people’s stuff, your name tops the Dragan’s most wanted list; it’s even ahead of Harper’s and Dylan’s. There’s a whole universe of Drago-Kazov out there dying to get their hands on you. The last thing we need is three people to rescue from them.” She gave Tyr another glare and he remained silent…for now.

She moved on to Trance. 

“Trance, you know I would love to have you come with me, you’re my lucky charm, after all, but you’re much better at diplomacy and talking your way out of messes than any of the rest of us. With Tyr in charge, we’re gonna need you here to keep him from starting any unnecessary wars or blowing up too many planets.” She smiled gently at the golden girl, and Trance nodded.

“Yes, I should stay here,” she agreed knowingly. “That is best for all of us right now.”

“Rommie, that means you’re with me. I know you want to stay here and follow orders, but I could really use you as back-up. Besides, with your programming and my wardrobe and hair-bots, we’re easily the most disguisable of all of us.”

Rommie paused for a moment, but then agreed. She could see that Beka had spent a lot of time thinking this out. It really was the best solution, even if Tyr still looked ready to mutiny.

“And what makes you so sure I will follow your orders and stay here, _Captain_ Valentine?” Tyr challenged. “I owe no loyalty to you or this Commonwealth; I do not have to obey you.”

“No, you don’t,” Beka shot back, refusing to be intimidated. “But, whatever your little personal plans are, I get the feeling they aren’t ready yet. And I also get the feeling they would be a lot easier with Dylan and Harper around. Therefore, for your own survival, it’s better to follow orders right now. Besides, try as hard as you will to deny it, you miss them, and you’re worried about them. You want them rescued as much as any of us and you know my plan has the best chance of doing it.”

Tyr was not at all pleased to have been seen through so easily, especially by a human. His glare turned positively glacial as he gazed at Beka. “I will stay and play this little game for now, Beka, but don’t think for a moment it’s because of your orders. No human orders Tyr Anasazi to do anything he does not wish to do.” He rose to leave.

“Yeah, sure, whatever, Tyr,” Beka dismissed coolly. “Oh and Tyr,” she called before he could leave the room. “Don’t get any grand ideas of taking over the ship or trying to rule the universe while we’re gone because not only did I promise Dylan I’d fight tooth and nail to keep his ship and his dream safe, but you’d have to get through a very ticked off warship and an angry golden warrior. That doesn’t sound very good for one’s survival.” 

She met his eyes and held his gaze resolutely until he finally broke the look with an odd smile. 

“Touché, Beka,” he laughed. “The ship and the golden girl are safe with me, as is the fool’s mission. Go save our lost sheep; we’ll be here when you get back.” He laughed again and shook his hair back over his shoulders, then purposefully left the room.

Beka let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Well, that went better than expected,” she muttered, running a hand through her hair and smiling slightly. “Now, let’s get down to business. I want to leave in the next couple of hours and we need to make sure we have everything settled. Trance, I’ve made you and Tyr a copy of Dylan’s upcoming agenda; it would probably be best if you guys stuck to it as closely as possible so the Commonwealth can’t holler that we aren’t following orders. Next up is a little visit to a planted called Bix Tania, I believe, to conclude the mission that started this whole mess,” Beka sighed, wishing Dylan had just never agreed to take on that mission in the first place. Then she forcefully cleared her thoughts and continued. 

“Trance, I also want you to outfit the _Maru_ with whatever medical supplies you think we might need and make sure Rommie knows what to do for every situation you can think of, including worst case scenarios. Rommie, pull your favorite weapons out and get them stored onboard as well. Oh, and bring some of those ghastly outfits you’re so fond of, they just might come in handy.”

She smiled at Rommie’s affronted look, but didn’t stop to laugh. There just wasn’t time. “Rommie, I also need you to generate a list of possible locations for us to search. Find any prison planets, drifts, slave worlds, anywhere that it might be likely Harper and Dylan have been sent to. I doubt they’re still on Felix’s ship; he wouldn’t have been so quick to turn tail and run if he still had them, figuring we wouldn’t try to blow him out of the sky with them on board. But, right now, they could be practically anywhere else and we need a way to narrow the options.”

Rommie nodded, already starting the search in her matrix as she left the room.

Trance moved to follow, but Beka called her back. “Trance, we’ve been friends for a long time, despite everything and the changes we’ve both been through. I trust you with my life and right now I need to trust you’re not holding anything back from me. Is there anything you know about all this that you’re not telling me? Or even any place you think we should search before another?”

Trance saw the pleading in her friend’s eyes and wished with all her heart she could help her, give her the news she wanted to hear. But she couldn’t. Not only was she forbidden to interfere like that, but this time she was just as much in the dark as everyone else. Lines and threads of time flowed about her and possible futures opened and closed so fast she couldn’t get a grasp on them herself. It left her reeling and feeling rather nauseous. 

“Beka, I wish I could help you, but I can’t. And I’m not saying that to hide things from you. This whole thing has just spun so far out of control and down paths never intended that I can’t follow the threads any more. I know Harper and Dylan are in danger, and in pain. I can tell you the longer we go without finding them the harder it will be to get them back, and the more likely it will be that things can never be the same again after we do. But that’s all I know and you probably figured all that out on your own anyway,” she said sadly.

Beka sighed then squeezed the girl’s hand. “Yeah, but that’s okay. Thanks anyway for trying. And we will get them back, I promise. Now, I’d better go let the crew know that Tyr is now officially Acting – Acting Captain, and then I’ve got to contact Tarazed about this wonderful little vacation I have planned…”


	30. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29**

_Put your shoulder to the wheel; push along,  
Do your duty with a heart full of song.  
We all have work; let no one shirk.  
Put your shoulder to the wheel._  
\- Will L. Thompson

*****

Day number two in the mines went pretty much like day number one. 

Day number three was ten times worse. 

By day number four, Harper was convinced he was going to die. 

Day number five he wished he would.

Day six he wondered if he _was_ dead and condemned to outer darkness and eternal suffering for all the rotten things he’d done over the years. 

By the time day seven rolled around, a whole week spent as a harnessed mule, Harper knew the Devil had nothing on the Niets. Why wait for the afterlife to start endless torture and punishment?

Of course Harper had never been one to go peacefully to either death or damnation. If he curled up on the ground in agony and begged to die like he really wanted to, the Ubers won, which would just really stink. 

So he stayed upright. And as long as he was upright, he was alive. And as long as he was alive, he might as well put his vast people skills to work and try to help brighten the Ubers’ days, one little step at a time.

And so he began to plot. 

After all, if he had to endure torture hour after hour, all day long, there was no reason to keep it all to himself. That would be just plain selfish…

*****

He started lightly. Just a few well known ditties to ease the way in.

_“I’ve been working on the railroad, all the live long…”_

His voice was clear and crisp and strong; well as clear and crisp and strong as one’s voice can be when one is three-fourths starved, two-fifths dead, and dragging a large cart full of rocks through an icy tunnel. But he did his best and his Ma had always told him he had a nice singing voice.

He really started to get warmed up as he worked his way through _Oh My Darlin’ Clementine, Old MacDonald, Kumbayah,_ and _John Brown’s Body._

“ _She’ll be coming round the mountain…_ ,” he sang, having saved his favorite folk song for last.

By mid-morning he’d made it through all the great traditional ones. He moved on to a few more original classics.

“ _On top of the playground, all covered with sand,  
I shot my poor teacher, with a green rubber-band._

_I shot her with pleasure, I shot her with pride.  
I couldn’t have missed her…she was forty feet wide!”_

_“Oh send me to glory in a glad bag!  
Don’t waste no fancy coffin on my bones…”_

_“Oh I wear my pink pajamas in the summer when it’s hot,  
And I wear my flannel nightie in the winter when it’s not.  
And sometimes in the springtime, and sometimes in the fall…  
I jump in bed with nothing on at all!”_

_“You put your right foot in, you put your right foot out, you put your right…”_

Around what would have been lunch in the normal world he ran out of these, so he moved on to some more hip ancient favorites.

_“…Don't wanna be a fool for you  
Just another player in your game for two  
You may hate me but it ain't no lie,  
Baby, bye, bye, bye...”_

_“I’ll start walkin’ your way, you start walkin’ mine…”_

_“I wanna hold your haaaaaand…”_

He got a little loopy with hunger about then and tried it differently.

_“I wanna smell your feeeeeet…”_

_“I wanna pick your noooose…”_

_“I wanna brush my teeeeeeth…”_

It got old after a while.

In the late afternoon he started wishing for something cold, anything cold. It put him in a festive mood.

_“Jingle bells! Jingle bells! Jingle all the way…”_

_Jolly Old Saint Nic_ and _Rudolph_ led to _Frosty_ and _Deck the Halls_. Then he remembered his favorite.

_“Grandma got ran over by a reindeer, walking home from our house Christmas Eve…”_

Finally, the day was over, so he decided to end his performance and drag his aching body out of the mine with a rousing chorus of the most appropriate tune of all.

_“Put your shoulder to the wheel, push along! Do your duty with heart full of song…”_

*****

Harper and Dylan sat quietly on their pile of straw, not having the energy to move much. Harper appeared to be deep in thought or half asleep; either way he was blissfully unaware of any of their surroundings, but Dylan noticed there seemed to be a sort of conference or argument going on over in the far corner of their barrack. About twenty or thirty of the other slaves were gathered together, conversing in hushed whispers, every once in a while throwing a glance over their shoulders back at Harper. 

Dylan’s worry-o-meter started beeping, but he was too worn out to care. He might as well wait for whatever was coming where he was. Saved energy that way.

He watched the others for a bit longer and he had to admit his curiosity was growing. They almost appeared to be drawing lots. Then one boy, about fourteen, reluctantly separated himself from the others. He started toward Harper then stopped. Hands pushed him on even as he dragged his feet and whispers of “go on!” or “hurry up!” followed him.

Finally, he stopped in front of Harper who was still lost in space, figuratively speaking. Dylan waited apprehensively.

“Um…”

Harper’s head jerked round at the sound of the voice. 

“Hey, um…blind dude?”

Harper snorted at the salutation and rolled his eyes. “Yeah?”

“Um…” the kid shuffled on his feet as he stammered, obviously not wanting to say what he’d been elected to say. He glanced back over his shoulder but the others furiously waved him on.

“Um…well…we was wondering, me and some of the others that is… Well, see it’s bad enough down there as it is…and not that we don’t admire your spirit and all… But…well…” He stopped, then sucked in his breath and blurted it out. “Could you _please_ not sing anymore! It’s driving us crazy!”

There was a moment of silence then, much to Dylan’s surprise, Harper threw back his head and laughed. He laughed so hard it took him a moment to be able to speak.

“Drew the short straw, did ya, kid?” he finally asked.

Surprised, the kid nodded then remembered who he was talking to and mumbled “yeah.”

“All right, I promise. No more Harper Harmonies or Singing Seamus Symphonies. I was doing it to bug the Ubers, anyway, not you guys,” Harper grinned. “But it was fun while it lasted.”

The kid looked extremely grateful and turned back to the others, giving them a thumbs-up signal. Collectively, they sagged in relief.

“If it makes you feel any better,” he told Harper as he was leaving, “I heard from Billy in Barrack 9B who heard from James in 1A that the Uber in charge of cart guard duty requested a transfer out today. Said something about wanting to spend more time with his wife and kids and rethink his occupational goals.”

Harper laughed till he cried this time. Score one for Seamus Harper.


	31. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30**

_Two men look out from the same prison bars; one sees mud and the other stars._

\- Frederick Langbridge

*****

Days passed, swam by, pooled together and became one. The slave camp became Harper’s life, his whole world. Nothing existed beyond the barbed wires that surrounded the camp, and things barely existed inside of them. 

He forgot what it meant to see, to know color, shadow, depth. He no longer thought about the sky, the stars, the unexplainable beauty of a sun. He forgot what warmth was, softness, comfort. He forgot what it was to be cared for, loved, valued – human.

But he also remembered. 

He remembered starvation, pain, exhaustion and his body adjusted. He remembered how to sleep wherever you could, whenever you could. He recalled how to think like a slave, act like a slave – be a slave.

And he learned.

He learned to no longer try and move his hands or feet too far apart. He learned to judge the hours of the day by the bite of the lash. He learned to hear, to smell, to feel, but never too much, because there were things he didn’t want to know. 

He learned practical things as well.

His always-aching bare feet learned to distinguish his location by the feel of the ground beneath them. He learned to work with one hand when he could, and make clumsy use of a useless, crippled limb when he couldn’t. He realized that the lice and insects that burrowed into his skin and left his body covered in angry, red spots would never go away, no matter how much he scratched. He quickly found that he liked it much better when he took Dylan’s arm to be lead around rather than Dylan taking his, and he learned to locate the older man by the clank of his chains. He was startled one day to realize he knew his way around their barrack and from then on refused to let Dylan guide him inside. He also learned that the common area outside was a dark, dangerous void full of horrors and pitfalls that he couldn’t navigate without help. Without Dylan to guide him it didn’t matter if the iron bars on their prison were open, he was still trapped inside.

He gradually started to make sense out of this world made of sound. Names became voices, voices became people, people became friends – or enemies, as the situation demanded.

There was Simon, their first friend and best help. He came from a world where humans were free, but his choice to follow The Way had lead him to worlds where they were not, and his pesky instance that slavery was wrong finally got him sent to Rellim to study slavery first hand. His voice was soft and low and his words always kind.

There were Ethan and Peter, fellow Earthers, both sent to the mines for causing trouble. Forty-one and thirty-five respectively, both talked with sadness of families left behind. Ethan spoke with a slight western drawl while Peter dropped his h’s. Their voices reminded Harper of home.

There was Dakin. A Rellim native of roughly Harper’s age, he’d been rounded up in the annual fall slave grabbing and sent to work the mines because he was strong and healthy. Now, a year later, he was neither, but he was still breathing, too stubborn to let the Ubers win. He spoke with a strange accent, his words few but strong when they came.

Then there was Twig, barely eleven and already waiting to die. He’d been in the mines so long he could hardly fathom a time before. All he knew was that his dad had broken some minor Uber law and he’d been taken as punishment. He vaguely remembered a small house in the country, a mother and sisters, but their names were long gone, as was his own. The only identity he recalled was his slave number, so the others had dubbed him Twig. Harper had taught him how to play a little game with sticks and pebbles one evening after dinner, and the little guy had stuck to him like glue ever since, his tiny voice peppering him and Dylan with questions and revealing a curiosity even slavery couldn’t stamp out.

There were also the “others.” 

Rosie, with her man’s voice and iron fists, a force to be avoided when at all possible. 

Erik: a fellow slave in their barrack who had learned well the lessons taught by the Niets. He preyed on the weak to insure his own survival. His voice was low and malicious and his hands sneaky. 

Adoniram: cold, cruel, and cunning, just like his words. 

And Marcus, their barrack guard. He left Harper confused. His voice was strong and proud, but it lacked the meanness of the other Dragans. Things turned up in their barrack that shouldn’t have: playing cards, a few books, a trinket or two for the young ones. If even Harper with his useless eyes knew they were there, surely Marcus had to be aware of them, but he said nothing. Was he toying with them, did he feel sympathy for his pathetic charges, or was he just bored? Harper had no idea, but kept Marcus in the enemy category just to be safe.

As the days passed, Harper wasn’t the only one who learned. Dylan did, too.

He learned what hunger meant, boredom, hopelessness, injustice… He learned the indignity of zero privacy, no bathing, weekly shaving fests done for him like he was incompetent. He learned to bite his tongue, duck his head, swallow his pride. And he learned to keep the anger locked inside, even though every day it got harder.

He sadly watched the pounds slip off his young friend’s body, counting each rib as it appeared, seeing his skin stretch and fade to resemble the other living wraiths around them. He watched the boy hobble around on bare feet and realized it no longer surprised him. He no longer forgot the kid was blind, and he got used to seeing Harper in chains, dragging and lifting the heavy weight. He watched the back of the engineer’s shirt become shredded little by little, but he never asked to check anymore. What was the point? And he watched a deadness settle in the boy’s eyes that had nothing to do with being blind. If he’d had a mirror, he might have noticed a similar change in himself, albeit much slower, but he didn’t and so he saw only Harper.

But he did more than watch his friend, he also observed, something only he could do now.

He observed the camp, its structure and layout, its weaknesses and strengths. He watched the Nietzscheans when he could, memorized their patterns, habits, faces. He watched the supply wagons roll in and the rock laden ones roll out. He observed the schedule, the guard shifts, the weapons… 

In his mind he planned a million escapes, rejected each one, and started over. He was patient, he had to be. There would be no second chance.

So he waited, and watched, and worried…and tried to keep them both alive.

And in the meantime, a strange thing began to happen. In the midst of misery and death, they both slowly let the locked doors of their minds fall open.


	32. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

_Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed._

\- G. K. Chesterton

*****

“…the giant Uberess dug out an old ration pack and reluctantly tossed it to Jack. _‘But you gotta go now!’_ she urged. _‘My husband will be home any minute and if he finds you here…’_ But it was too late because just then they both heard the stomping of the giant Uber’s feet. _‘Quickly!’_ the Uberess hissed, _‘hide here in our heating coil!’_ Jack dove for the coil, just barely pulling his feet in as the massive Niet came into the kitchen. He sat in a chair, spreading his massive bone blades across the table, and called to his wife, _‘Bring me dinner! I’m hungrier than a magog!’_ Just then, he straightened, sitting up in his chair. His giant, enhanced, Uber senses had caught a whiff of something that shouldn’t be there. _‘Tree, tray, tra, trudge! I smell the blood of a scrawny Kludge!’_ he bellowed angrily, snapping his bone blades –”

“That’s not the way I remember it,” Dylan interrupted with a snort. Twig giggled.

“Hush, Boss Bug. I’m telling this story, not you,” Harper ordered, then turned in Twig’s direction. “Twig, just ignore all comments from the peanut gallery. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Dylan cried “Hey!” and Twig giggled again even though he didn’t know what a peanut gallery was.

“Anyway, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, the giant Uber starts bellowing that he can smell Jack, right?...”

“But why did Jack go into the castle if he knew there were Ubers there?” Twig’s voice stopped Harper again.

“Well, because he wanted an adventure. And he wanted to find something to help get food for his mom,” Harper explained tiredly, his energy waning. 

“I don’t think the original story had Jack trading the family hoverboard for the beans, though,” Dylan teased.

Harper just shook his head. These people had no appreciation for a good story.

Harper liked to tell stories. It was something he was good at. He’d told a lot of stories in the camps, trying to drive back the demons, real and imagined, just for a bit. They’d been wild tales full of enthusiastic gestures. Sometimes he’d lost himself in the excitement and leapt to his feet to act out bits.

His stories were different now, confined as he was by iron, by pain, by darkness, but he told them anyway. They were the only things he had that were still free.

Besides, it’s not every day he had such a _captive_ audience.

_Okay, Seamus, that one was really lame…_

Harper shook his head again. The truth was, Twig soaked them up like a dry sponge, and he and Dylan didn’t mind the distraction either.

“So, what happened next?” Twig breathed, and Harper felt him scoot nearer. 

He smiled wearily, “Sorry, Twig, but I’m kinda tired now. Can I tell you more tomorrow?” Tired didn’t really cover what he was feeling, and his back was burning from the flogging he’d received earlier, but there was no need to mention that. 

Silence. 

Twig must have nodded. He was always forgetting not to do that. After a moment he heard Dylan whispering something. “Oh… Yeah, that’s okay, Seamus,” Twig hurried to answer verbally.

“Thanks.”

Moving slowly, Harper lay down on the straw, trying to…well not get comfortable so much as find the place that provided the least discomfort. He arranged his chains and closed his eyes, but sleep eluded him. 

“Dylan?” he heard Twig ask softly, several minutes later. “Why can’t Seamus see?”

Harper stayed still, eyes closed, pretending to be asleep as he waited for Dylan to answer.

It was a long moment before he did. “Well, um…because…because his eyes don’t work right.”

“But why don’t his eyes work right?”

Harper listened to Dylan hmm and haw and he sighed. The captain was trying to find a way to sugar-coat an ugly answer, but he forgot he was talking to a child who lived, and had virtually always lived, in ugliness. In Dylan’s world, children were to be protected, kept away from the evil of the universe, but Twig, like Harper, had had that right ripped away from him long ago. He’d seen and lived unimaginable horrors, but Dylan couldn’t, or wouldn’t, understand that.

Harper rolled over.

“Twig, my eyes don’t work because Felix broke them,” he said calmly, without emotion. And he didn’t pull his words; he gave it to the kid straight. “I did something that made him really mad. I was his slave but I ran away. Then he caught me and he punished me by making my eyes not work anymore. Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” Twig answered, nodding wisely. He knew what punishment was. He thought for a moment more. “Would you run away again if you could? From here?”

“Yes, I would,” Harper answered firmly.

Twig was quiet again as if processing that. “I wouldn’t,” he finally admitted. “I wouldn’t know where to go.”

Silence descended again but it didn’t last long. Not that Harper could sleep anyway. A storm was coming; he could tell by the way his hands and ribs were aching even more than usual, and the fresh stripes on his back throbbed.

“Dylan,” Twig whispered again, “why do you call Seamus ‘Harper’ when his name’s Seamus?”

Harper had been waiting for this one. None of the other slaves really cared if he was called Seamus or Harper. They had more important things to worry about. But Twig had become a virtual shadow to the pair, spending as much time as possible hanging around them. He was there even more than Simon was, as the older man was often called to offer comfort or advice to other slaves.

“Well, Seamus is his name,” Dylan told the boy, “but so is Harper.”

“Why?”

Harper’s lips tugged up in a weary smile. “My full name is Seamus Zelazny Harper. That’s really long, though, so I just told people here to call me Seamus, but my friends call me Harper.”

For a child with no name the thought of having three was an extravagance he couldn’t comprehend. “Three names! Just for you?” Twig cried then turned to Dylan. “Do you have more names, too?”

“Yep,” Dylan answered, smiling at the wide-eyed expression on the boy. “My name is Captain Dylan Hunt.”

“Why would one person need so many names?”

“It’s just the way people do things,” Dylan answered. “You probably used to have more than one name, too, you know.”

Twig shrugged. Maybe, but he couldn’t remember.

“So,” he asked happily, “can I call you Harper, too? Like Dylan does?”

“Yeah,” Harper laughed even though he was bone-tired. “Knock yourself out. Call me Harper, or whatever you want. Freakin’ Genius works, too, or Super –”

“Harper, you’re confusing the boy,” Dylan cut in, laughing.

The first curfew whistle shattered the air just then. Those of their barrack-mates who weren’t already inside began streaming through the prison door.

“Twig!” Peter called tiredly to the boy from across the room. “Come over ‘ere an’ climb up so we can get in.”

“Okay,” Twig replied then turned to his friends. “Bye,” he said quickly and scurried off to the bunk he shared with Ethan and Peter.

Dylan moved over to sit on the straw beside Harper’s feet and leaned his back against the barrack wall. He bent his knees and rested his arms on the top, letting his chained hands dangle loosely between them. His days of sitting in chairs seemed very far away. Gradually, the noise of the barrack quieted as the prisoners dragged their broken bodies into their bunks and let sleep take them to better places, or blessed oblivion. He knew he should sleep too, he was certainly tired enough, but he didn’t. At night, when they weren’t slaving like animals, it was so hard to be here. Not that the work wasn’t back-breaking and horrid as well, but a night it was so hard to combat the boredom, the feeling that they _shouldn’t be stuck here_! The Worldship was coming, the Commonwealth was in a state of unrest, and he was rotting in some death camp when he should be out there doing something about it!

He glanced at Harper, looking his friend over and noticing that the ever-present lines of pain on his forehead were a little deeper tonight.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

“A little sore,” Harper admitted. It was a mark of how much things had changed that Harper skipped the flippant answer and told his captain the truth.

Dylan’s constantly repressed anger flared as he noted the fresh tears and blood in the boy’s ragged shirt, but he said nothing. There was nothing he could say or do that would change anything, and that was the worst part of all. Dylan Hunt was not used to being powerless, especially when it came to helping his friends.

He changed the subject. They did that a lot these days. They talked a lot, too. More than they ever had before life became insane.

“Harper, where’d ‘Zelazny’ come from?”

To his surprise, Harper laughed. “A moment of drunken insanity.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Mom named me Seamus after her brother who died when they were kids. Dad got to pick my middle name. The night after I was born, Dad went out with the guys to celebrate. I was the first of their four kids to live through a whole day. Anyway, they got good and plastered. Sometime during the night they asked him what I was gonna be called and Dad said he didn’t know yet. One thing led to another and before long one of them had dared Dad that he couldn’t use the last letter of the alphabet twice in one name. And so Zelazny was born. I tell ya, Mom was none too happy about it, but Dad couldn’t go back on the dare. I was stuck. Mom never forgave him for that, but me, I kinda like it. Makes me unique.”

“Are you serious? You got the name Zelazny from a dare?” Dylan couldn’t help laughing. “And I always assumed it was some old family name or something! 

“Nope. But it could become one, you know. Feel free to pass it on to your kids, if you’d like. When I’m famous, they might appreciate it.”

“Um…I think I’ll pass on that,” Dylan said.

“Fine, suit yourself. Just trying to be nice,” Harper mumbled sarcastically then hissed in pain, a hiss that turned into a yawn.

“You should go to sleep, Harper,” Dylan said, concerned.

“Can’t,” Harper mumbled. “My Serta Sheep are on strike. Won’t come out and do their job. They say it stinks in here.”

“Huh?” Dylan said.

“You know, Serta Sheep…mattresses…

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, never mind,” Harper muttered.

They were quiet for a moment.

“You know, speaking of names, I didn’t tell Twig the whole truth when he asked,” Dylan said suddenly.

“You, Captain Dylan Hunt, lied?” Harper rolled carefully onto his back, hiding his grunt of pain. If he could have, he would have been looking right at the captain. Instead, his blind eyes drifted lazily off somewhere just to Dylan’s right. Dylan felt a pang of regret; he missed the emotions those eyes used to convey, how they showed what the young engineer was thinking, how they’d light up with the joy of discovery.

“Well, no. I just didn’t tell the whole truth. There’s a difference, as I’m sure you know since you’ve used that excuse on me more than once…”

“Okay, okay. Good point. So, what didn’t ya tell the kid?” Harper was exhausted, but Dylan has piqued his interest.

“My full name. Dylan’s not my first name, you know.”

“It’s not?” Harper asked. Now he was really confused.

“You don’t go by your first name, well, neither do I, although obviously for different reasons. My full name is Ethelbert Dylan Hunt.” Dylan said it quickly. It wasn’t something he admitted often.

“Ethelbert?”

“Yeah.”

“ _Ethelbert!_ ”

“Sh, not so loud!”

“And I thought Zelazny was bad. No wonder you don’t go by your first name!”

“It was my great-grandfather’s. Mom had this thing for family history, but she never considered all the years I’d have to spend in grade school being called ‘Ethel.’ I dropped the name as soon as I got to the Academy.”

“Ethelbert…” Harper was still in disbelief. “Three years I’ve been serving under a Captain Ethelbert and I didn’t even know it? Oh, the things I could have done…” he sighed dreamily.

“Mention it and you die,” Dylan threatened. “I’ll tell Tyr what _really_ happened to his favorite gauss gun.”

“Ouch! You play mean, _Ethel_.”

“I knew I would regret this…”

“Hey, it’s all good. I’m just yanking your chain.” Given their current situation, Harper realized that probably wasn’t the best phrase to use. “I mean…you know what I mean.” He suddenly found it very hard to keep his eyes open. Conversation tired him easily nowadays. 

“Go to sleep, Harper,” Dylan said seriously, slipping into captain-mode again as he watched his friend fight sleep.

“’K, Boss,” Harper agreed. “Oh, and don’t worry, your secret really is safe with me. Heaven knows you’ve got enough of mine now.”

Harper rolled onto his side once more, chains jangling. His back hurt too much to stay on it tonight. He cradled his aching hands to his chest and curled up under his thin blanket. “Doubt we’ll ever get back for me to tell anyways…” he whispered under his breath.

Dylan pretended he hadn’t heard.


	33. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32**

_When you see how the people live, and still more easily they die, it is always difficult to believe that you are walking among human beings… They rise out of the earth, they sweat and starve for a few years, and then they sink back into the nameless mounds of the graveyard and nobody notices that they are gone._

\- George Orwell

*****

“The sack full of thrones Jack had stolen from the giant Ubers was almost gone and pretty soon he and his mom wouldn’t have anything to buy food with. Jack knew he’d have to climb the beanstalk again and find something else, something better. His mother begged him not to go; she knew what would happen if the Ubers caught him, but Jack knew he had no choice. His mom handed him a perfectly smooth, round pebble that she’d had since she was a girl and told him to keep it in his pocket. It was been her good-luck charm; as long as he had it, she hoped he’d be safe. Then she tried to kiss him, but he wormed his way out of her hold muttering ‘Stop it, Ma!’ and started up the beanstalk for the second time.”

*****

Days got hotter as summer reached its peak. The air stagnated. The mines, deep underground, remained cold as tombs but the camp turned into a sweltering inferno. Nothing moved, nothing breathed, and the slaves prayed for the pitiful relief of even a wisp of a breeze. Weekly thunderstorms lit the sky and rattled the camp but instead of bringing the coolness of rain they only intensified the heat and torture. The stench rose to unimaginable heights and unwashed bodies dripped with sweat. At night the earth barely cooled and the barracks were like ovens, trapping the heat of the day. People dropped like flies, and the Ubers disposed of them as such. The mass graves just outside the camp grew steadily.

*****

It was a “bread day” and Harper carefully hid his roll in his clothes, saving it to nibble on in the night hours when hunger twisted his insides unmercifully.

Two slaves were shot at evening roll call that night for falling asleep on the job. For minor infractions, five others were publicly flogged, twenty lashes each, including one of the little water-carriers who’d tripped and spilled his bucket. Dylan bit his lip until it bled to keep from protesting and Harper hung his head and listened to the whip crack through the stifling air, tattooing out the centuries old song of slavery.

*****

“Harper, why didn’t you ever tell me that you’d been a slave? While we were on the _Andromeda_?”

It was night again and it was too hot to sleep. They both lay listlessly on their blankets trying not to move. Moving produced more heat.

Harper considered his friend’s question for a moment. The extreme temperature made his brain a bit sluggish and he felt wrung out as his body sweated away more liquid than he was allowed to take in. The sweat and heat also made the heavy chains more galling, rubbing at his wrists, ankles, waist and neck until the skin peeled away and the salty liquid leaked into the wounds, stinging horribly. Another excellent reason to move as little as possible.

He realized Dylan was still waiting for an answer.

“Well, it’s not exactly something I’m proud of, or enjoyed,” he stated.

“But we’re your friends. Friends tell each other the bad stuff along with the good.”

“They also keep things hidden that they know would be too painful or hard for their friends to hear. And for the record, you didn’t exactly make it easy for people to wander in and spill their guts to you when you rushed around with that ‘I’m saving the universe everything else can wait’ attitude.”

Dylan flinched a little, stung by the honest answer. Harper was right. He’d been a jerk; a self-centered, self-righteous jerk. Funny how this little field trip had opened his eyes so completely. Cruel how it had also closed Harper’s so totally.

“Well, I’m here now and I’d like to know more about you. Not as your captain, but as your friend. What happened to you as a slave? I really wanna know.”

Harper absently swatted at the rat that was trying to steal his morsel of bread. He closed his eyes and prepared to dredge up the darkest corners of his memory.

“The slave trade on Earth is brutal. It’s a planet where the Nietzscheans have had to resort to terror, deprivation, and death just to control the ‘free’ human population, so the slave trade there brings sadistic and cruel to new levels. Once it scars your life you’re never the same.

“They take everything from you, Dylan, everything! Not only do they rip you away from whatever family and friends you might have left, but they steal your freedom, your identity, your soul. Within three hours of being grabbed by the slavers I’d been beaten, tagged, branded, stripped of any remaining shred of dignity and thrown in a black pit of a hole to contemplate my status.”

The young man gave a hollow, dead sort of laugh. “Guess it’s not really that different from this time around when you look at it.”

“Then what happened?” Dylan urged, needing to know.

“Once they pull you out of the pit, usually after three or four days, long enough for you to be weak from hunger and thirst and thoroughly terrified, then the real fun begins. They call it training or conditioning.” Harper’s voice was distant as he relived those days in his head, the experiences burned into his mind as strong as the moment they happened. “You learn that the slave tags deliver a nasty shock if you don’t do what you’re told. The first two or three times they just shock you right into oblivion for no reason at all. After that, the remembered pain is usually enough to keep you from lashing out. 

“Your new home is a nice, freezing-cold cage and every day the slavers come round to ‘beat the spirit’ out of you. They teach you that you’re less than scum and if you wanna live you gotta ask your master for it. They take your clothes and leave you chained by your ankle and shivering in your cage until you’re willing to beg the Ubers just to get a pair of socks or a shirt. They withhold food and water, but make sure there’s some sitting just beyond your reach until you’re half mad and you’d offer anything just to have a bite or a sip of something wet. They whip you, beat you, spit on you, demean you… And the worst part is they enjoy every minute of it.” There was a lot more to it than that, but some things Harper would never tell, not to anyone, _ever_. 

He went on instead.

“If you’re a good little slave, you learn quickly. You swallow your pride or you break under torture and you beg your tormentors for that food, that ratty blanket to keep out the cold. You grovel and plead and sell your life and soul away, and then you get to move on to stage two. But, if you’re not a good little slave, if you don’t learn quickly, you do not pass go and you don’t get to collect $200. You get to repeat the process. Over and over again until it sinks in or you’re dead.”

Dylan listened in silence, appalled and outraged at the same time. He didn’t have to ask to know which group Harper had belonged too. It sickened him to wonder how many times the boy had ‘gone through the process’ before he finally broke.

“I think I lasted about three months. I tried to hold out, Dylan, I really did,” Harper read the man’s mind. He couldn’t explain why he felt the need to justify something to his captain that had happened long before he’d even met him, but he did just the same. Dylan’s opinion of him mattered and he was afraid the man would look on him with disgust after this. “But I wanted to live. I _needed_ to live. Not for me, for someone else. So I gave in, Boss. I gave in and groveled at their feet and begged my masters for food and clothes and the pain to stop, just like a well-trained dog.” His voice trembled with emotion and he clenched his good hand tightly, glad he couldn’t see Dylan’s face as he learned just how weak and pathetic his engineer really was.

Dylan levered himself up onto one elbow so he had a better view of his friend. Harper’s eyes were still closed and his face was twisted as if he was in pain. The captain started to reach out and put a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder, aware of the boy’s distress, but remembered the firm ‘no touching rule’ and stopped. “Then what?” he asked instead, after a moment of heavy silence. Harper was surprised to hear that his captain’s voice was thick with suppressed emotion as well.

“Then you get to go shopping.” Harper’s laugh was eerie and rather frightening. “Only you’re not buying, you’re the one for sale. Once you’re thoroughly broken in and trained, they haul you off to the auction block. When your turn comes, they drag you up onto this big platform, totally naked. There’s a metal frame waiting for you and they chain your wrists to the top and your ankles to the bottom leaving you completely helpless, stretched out, and exposed; merchandise on display for the crowds of Ubers to haggle over.

“And haggle they do. They touch you, prod you, examine your teeth and your eyes and your arms and legs like an animal on sale. They hit you to see if you talk back or are suitably submissive.” Dylan noticed the boy instinctively curled up as he spoke as if trying to hide or protect himself. “If you’re big and strong they argue over prices until someone wins and leads you away. But if you’re small and pale and pathetic, like me, you stand there for hours until some Uber finally decides you might be worth six months or so of hard labor. Or some sick pervert with eyes for the small and helpless strolls by and decides he likes you.”

Dylan gasped. “Harper, were you –”

“No,” Harper interrupted flatly, “I wasn’t bought for what you’re thinking, although that doesn’t mean it couldn’t…” He changed directions purposefully. Another of those memories that should never see the light of day… “Or you could just stand there for hours until someone remembers you might be slightly intelligent and good at mechanics.”

“Felix?” Dylan guessed, still reeling.

“Yeah,” Harper mumbled. The rat was back and he gave in and let it take his bread. Maybe he could get it to trust him and then catch it and eat it instead. He continued his story. “I found out later it was all a set-up anyway. Felix had been after me since…well…he’d been after me for a long time, and fixing things and selling them in the camps hadn’t helped me a bit. My parents saved me once and then, three years later, how do I repay them? One moment of stupidity and carelessness and I end up on the auction block anyway.”

“So you were forced to work as Felix’s mechanic,” Dylan supplied.

“Not right away. I had no idea what he really wanted me for. After almost a full day of hanging in that frame on the platform and being poked and examined and humiliated and then walked away from I figured the slavers must have paid _him_ to take me off their hands. You don’t expect to live long when you’ve been sold as last pickings. Felix knew that, used it to further wear me down.

“Felix wanted to make sure I was completely broken and docile before he put me into his factories. For probably six months I shoveled dirt and grunge, one of dozens of other disposable grunt slaves. And the beatings, whippings, starvation, and degradation just continued. When we were allowed to rest we simply collapsed where we were in the filth. When the whip cracked again we dragged ourselves back to work. Some slaves got back up, some never did. 

“It was horrible! I can’t even describe it. I wanted out! I wanted gone from there more than anything I’d ever wanted before, and every day the desperation grew. Every day I was there was one more I was failing to protect…” Harper stopped abruptly and changed subjects again. “But there was absolutely no way to escape, nothing I could do. I was convinced I would shovel dirt until one day I just dug my own grave.”

He paused to collect his thoughts and ragged emotions. He’d never talked about these things before, not even to Beka. _Especially_ not to Beka. It was draining, more even than the smothering heat. He used his chained hands to wipe the sweat that kept dripping into his blind eyes away, and then turned to where he knew Dylan was lying.

“You have to understand something, Dylan. Slaves on Earth are not people. They aren’t even animals. They are things, commodities, totally disposable. The planet is crawling with Kludges there for the grabbing. One dies, you just get another. Having skills doesn’t afford you any level of protection, either. If one beast has skills, chances are there’s another out there that does, too. This means that as a slave you are totally dependent on the whims of your master. If he doesn’t want to feed you, he freakin’ doesn’t have to. He can give you clothes or not as he likes. He doesn’t like you…you’re locked away and forgotten about. You make him mad, he can beat you, cut off your foot or your hand, gouge out your eyes, slit your throat…and it’s not any different than kicking a couch or disposing of a faulty generator.”

The young man sighed bitterly then gave a weary smile. “Of course, I guess you probably _do_ understand that now, at least that last part.” He paused again and his face softened with sadness. “I’m so sorry you got dragged into this rotten system, Dylan. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemies…well okay, maybe a few, but never, _ever_ my friends.”

Harper’s voice sounded tiny and lost as he revealed his memories and Dylan didn’t quite know what to say. He also finally understood why Harper had never confided in him before. If he hadn’t been sitting in chains next to the boy in a living nightmare he wouldn’t have been able to even half-way fathom what his friend had been through. And even now it was still staggering to think about.

“Don’t apologize, Harper,” he said firmly. “You’re not the one who created this tyranny. You’re just a victim of it, like the rest of us.”

“It’s not like this everywhere, you know,” Harper whispered after a moment. “I mean Nietzscheans exploit and use and enslave Kludges all over the universe, but not all systems are as savage as Earth’s and her sister planets are under the Dragans. I’ve heard some Niets even treat their slaves well, learn to trust them and value them, even look on them as family after a time.”

“That doesn’t make slavery right, Harper,” Dylan countered.

“I know, but I can’t help it if I sometimes wish I’d been born on one of those planets instead of Earth. It would have been nice to be healthy and cared for instead of beaten and starved, even if I was still a slave.”

The sadness of stolen dreams was palpable. Dylan had to shatter it before it swallowed them both.

“Eventually Felix must have taken you out of the pits, right?”

Harper composed himself and continued. “Yeah. After six months of digging he had his goons pull me into one of his factories. I got to manufacture arms and missiles for the next nine months. He might have broken my spirit, but I had something pulling me home stronger than anything he could do to me. I never gave up wanting to be free. And then he gave me tools and electronics and machines to play with… That was his big mistake. He knew I was smart, good at what I did, but he totally underestimated me. It took me nine months but I finally figured out a way to turn his factory into chaos and I escaped.”

For the first time in the conversation, Harper felt a measure of pride as he spoke. This was the one part, the _only_ part, of his slave experience he wasn’t ashamed to share with people.

“Knowing you and how you work, it must have been pretty spectacular. Would have loved to have seen the look on old Gaius’ face,” Dylan agreed heartily. “So, a year and a half after you were stolen by the slavers, you finally managed to get free…” he tallied up, more to himself than Harper, but the boy still nodded in response. “Harper, how old were you when you were captured?”

Harper snorted harshly. “Sixteen. On the dot. Sixteen and too full of myself to listen to others’ advice.” His words were bitter and hard, the anger he felt for himself still apparent. “So sure I could take on the world, beat the odds, defy the rules… I spent my birthday night in a slave pit instead of with the people I loved. I guess you could say I learned from my mistake, paid a high price… But someone else paid a higher one.”

Dylan’s brain had spiraled off before Harper even finished talking. He thought about what he’d been doing when he was sixteen. His biggest concern had been who they’d play in the next basketball match and how to get out of being grounded for crashing his dad’s hovercraft. He remembered the huge party his parents had thrown for him on his sixteenth birthday, inviting all his friends. There’d been cake and champagne and hors d’ouvres as they celebrated his life and sixteen years of good memories and happiness. 

He was sixteen when he kissed his first ‘true love,’ sixteen when he was accepted into the High Guard Academy, sixteen when he first flew slipstream… 

And at sixteen, Harper had been tortured for months in a cage…had been sold in chains as less than an animal…had been digging his own grave.

It floored him. He couldn’t breathe. For the first time he was truly aware of what his friend’s life had been, how different they were.

It was a long time before he could speak again.

“One thing I don’t understand,” he said quietly, sitting up all the way and consciously trying to control his emotions. “I’m sure Felix was ticked you messed his factory up and managed to escape, but if slaves were a dime-a-dozen on Earth, why did he care so much about getting you back? One little slave hardly seems worth his time. Why such a vicious, long-lived grudge?”

“Why the collar? Why the chains? Why the blinding? Why not just crucify me and be done with it like every other runaway slave?” Harper finished what Dylan wouldn’t say.

“Yeah,” Dylan conceded. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t just mess up his factory and escape, I let every other slave in the forty-one story complex go as well. He really should have known better than to let me play with his machines.”

For the first time all night, Dylan smiled. “Oh yeah, I can see how that would upset Felix’s little world. And get you a spot at the top of his hit list! You don’t believe in small do you?”

“The bigger the better,” Harper grinned.

“And I dragged you right back to him,” Dylan sighed sadly.

“Aw, Dylan, don’t beat yourself up about that. He would have found me eventually; I was just kidding myself to think I could hide from him. You don’t let thousands of slaves escape and expect to go unpunished, no matter how far away you run.”

The conversation sizzled out in the heat, but neither one could sleep now, even if it hadn’t been broiling.

“Harper,” Dylan asked after a bit, “remember back before this mission spiraled out of control? When we were on the _Maru_ and you delivered that baby? How did you know how to do that? You said you learned how as a slave…”

Harper sucked in his breath and sat up abruptly. He reached out for the barrack wall and moved over to lean shakily against it, drawing up his knees as he fought to control the sudden onslaught of memories.

“Harper?” Dylan called, reaching out in concern.

The young man breathed deeply for several minutes before he attempted to speak.

“I’m okay, Dylan,” he tried to cover. “Just needed to move, change positions and get rid of the kinks.”

He steadied himself so he could answer. “Working in the factory was totally different from being a grunt worker. I had my own little workbench, set in a line of dozens of other workbenches, and I was chained to it by my ankle night and day. For nine months I never left the six foot radius that chain allowed me to move in. I slept underneath the bench, I used the waste disposal next to it, and I did my work as it came down the assembly line to my station. Everything was totally automated. When you worked hard enough to complete your assigned quota, the slot opened and you got your reward of slop and water. When it was time to rest, the lights dimmed; time to work, they came back on. The chains were sealed with electronic locks, completely un-pickable from the outside so there was no hope of escape. Some slaves had been there for years. Overconfident in their system or maybe just lazy, the Ubers only came around maybe once a day to check on things and beat you for good measure.”

He paused but then decided to go on before he could lose his nerve.

“It wasn’t as horrible as the pits were, but it was still awful in its own way; the sameness, the boredom, the forced confinement. And there were still plenty of beatings and days without rest or food to make sure you never forgot you were a slave. The chains were long enough and the benches close enough you could reach your neighbor on either side, but that was it. 

Dylan tried to imagine how his hyperactive, always-on-the-go engineer had survived nine months tethered to a bench. Once again, it blew his mind.

“On my right was some old geezer, one half crazy and the other half mad. I think he’d been there so long he’d forgotten everything but his job. He’d never answer my questions, just grunt, although some nights I’d wake up to find him sitting right next to me, just staring at me. Creeped me out to no end…” Harper gave a small shudder. “But on my left was a woman who had arrived only a few weeks before me. She was probably about thirty-five or forty and rather pretty in a simple kind of way. She sorta took me under her wing and we would talk sometimes, to kill the time.

“At first I didn’t realize it, but it really didn’t take too long for me to see that she was pregnant. As the days passed, she got closer and closer to delivery and still the Ubers kept her chained to her bench. As if they could just ignore the problem and it would go away…

“Well, one day, she went into labor of course. The Nietzschean guard had already been around for the day, and I was the only one who could reach her.”

Harper lost himself in the memories as he continued to speak. He forgot about Dylan, forgot about the heat and his chains, forgot about the rats that kept running across his toes. His eyes forgot they were blind and he gazed on that scene from his mind again, lived it again. His voice was soft and distant, scared sounding.

“Seventeen year old boys know squat about delivering babies, no matter what planet you come from. I was terrified. Totally petrified, but I was the only one she had. No one else could reach her, the Niets didn’t give a darn, and she couldn’t do it on her own. I had to try. Thankfully, this wasn’t her first baby and so she at least knew what to do. Despite her own terror and obvious pain and discomfort, she took the time to calm me down and then talked me through it all. 

“It was so hard for her and it took hours.” His voice caught as he remembered. “We were both crying and screaming and begging before it was over. And then it was and she was there.” Harper’s lips turned up in an unconscious smile. “This tiny, baby girl who was so perfect and so innocent. All around me was horror and pain and death, but she wasn’t a part of that, it hadn’t touched her. She was the most beautiful thing I’d seen in over a year and she cracked through the wall I hadn’t realized I’d built around my heart.”

His eyes were glistening with tears and his voice was barely a whisper now.

“I pulled off my shirt and cleaned her up. I played with her long, dark curls and I counted each perfect toe and finger. I watched with fascination as she screwed up her face and howled, letting the world know she was there. I laughed as she wrapped her hand around my finger and felt like somehow, she was mine, too. Then I wrapped her in my shirt and gave her to her mother.

“She just lay there, holding that tiny angel and talking to her, telling her how much she loved her. She cooed to her, rocked her, held her. It was intensely personal and I felt like an intruder so after a bit, I looked away, trying to give them some privacy. I heard her singing a lullaby, a beautiful one with a haunting melody… Then it was just silent. No singing, no fussing baby, just silence…”

Harper’s voice broke and he hugged his knees tightly, his eyes closed. “I looked back and she was crying, still rocking that little girl. But the baby was quiet, too quiet. And I realized…I realized she was dead. Her mother had…had…killed her. Smothered her with _my_ shirt. She just looked at me through her tears and said ‘She’s free, now,’ and then started to rock and sing again.”

Tears fell from Harper’s tightly shut eyes and a sob caught in his throat. “She killed her own baby! That precious, beautiful, innocent little girl! Killed her to keep her from being a slave…”

*****

_Slumber my darling, thy mother is near  
Guarding thy dreams from all terror and fear.  
Sunlight has past and the twilight has gone,  
Slumber my darling, the night’s coming on.  
Sweet visions attend thy sleep  
Fondest, dearest to me,  
While others their revels keep,  
I will watch over thee.  
Slumber my darling, the birds are at rest,  
Wandering dews by the flowers are caressed,  
Slumber my darling, I’ll wrap thee up warm,  
And pray that the angels will shield thee from harm._

_Slumber my darling till morn’s blushing ray  
Brings to the world the glad tidings of day.  
Fill the dark void with thy dreamy delight –  
Slumber, thy mother will guard thee tonight.  
Thy pillow shall sacred be  
From all outward alarms,  
Thou, thou art the world to me  
In thine innocent charms.  
Slumber my darling, the birds are at rest,  
Wandering dews by the flowers are caressed,  
Slumber my darling, I’ll wrap thee up warm,  
And pray that the angles will shield thee from harm._

\- Stephen Foster


	34. Chapter 33

**Chapter 33**

_What you lose in blindness is the space around you, the place where you are, and without that you might not exist. You could be nowhere at all._

\- Barbara Kingsolver

*****

The heat built up like an unresolved tension, crescendoing to a point where something had to give. Either the stagnant air had to shatter or the lives and sanity of the slaves would, and for once, Mother Nature looked with pity on the poor, wretched creatures wasting away in misery. Just when the temperature rose to a point the very earth seemed to pulse like a discordant interval, the heat broke. The rain came. The air moved again and the planet and the people breathed.

Harper stood outside their barrack in the cool air, arms outstretched and taunt in his chains. He tilted his head back, turned his sightless eyes heavenward, and let the drenching rain wash across his face like the tears he no longer had the energy to cry. The water ran in rivers down his head, neck, back. It soaked his clothes, cooling, soothing, cleansing.

Too bad some stains could never wash away.

*****

“Come on, Harper,” Twig tugged gently on his friend’s arm. “Please?”

Harper sighed. He was tired and sore, but then he was always tired and sore nowadays.

“Twig, we don’t have a ball,” he tried to reason with the boy. 

“Yes, we do!” Twig said excitedly, putting something in the engineer’s hands.

Harper felt it curiously for several minutes before he realized what it was. Twig had rolled his blanket up and tied it so it was a sort-of round, lopsided lump that kind of resembled a ball.

“Please?” Twig begged again, scooting right up next to Harper in his excitement. “I wanna learn to play catch, like you told me.”

“Twig,” Harper said softly, “I can’t see. Not to mention my hands aren’t very good or able to move around. What I told you about playing catch; that was from a long time ago, when I still could. I can’t do that anymore.” He gently pushed the blanket-ball back to the kid.

Twig, however, was just a stubborn. He pushed the round lump right back into Harper’s hands. “Yes, you can, Harper. I can help you if you explain it to me. And we don’t hafta play for long.”

Harper caved. He couldn’t believe that after slaving all day, for hours and hours, Twig could still have the energy to want to play, but at the same time, how could he deny the boy the chance to experience even a smidgeon of a normal childhood? Not that Harper could consider himself an expert in the normal childhood department, but still… Besides, it really was amazing that even amidst starvation, death, and horror, children still managed to find ways to be children.

“All right, Twig. But just for a little while. Go tell Dylan I’m going outside with you, okay?” 

Twig scurried off with a huge grin on his face to deliver the message to Dylan, who was playing cards with Ethan, Dakin, and Simon in the corner. In mere seconds he was back at Harper’s side, literally bouncing with excitement. Harper couldn’t help but smile as Twig grabbed his good hand and tugged him outside, guiding him and making sure he didn’t back out at the same time.

They didn’t go far. Twig knew Harper didn’t like to wander from their barrack without Dylan around, and even though it was technically their precious two hours of “free time,” the Ubers were never far away. Twig might only be eleven, but he’d spent nearly his whole life as a slave in the camp. No one had to tell him the Nietzscheans had it out for Harper, and he wasn’t about to get his friend in trouble. 

He led them out of the open doorway and a few feet down along the wall to a spot where Harper could sit with his back against it. That way Harper wouldn’t feel like he was adrift in a sea of blackness when he let go.

Twig waited for Harper to settle cross-legged on the ground and arrange his heavy chains before happily handing him the blanket-ball. Then he scooted back a few feet and plopped down in the damp dirt himself, grinning from ear to ear. The recent rains had wet down the dust and washed away some of the filth from the camp, making life a little more bearable. The warm days were back, but they stopped short of the blistering inferno of before, and at least just breathing wasn’t a momentous task anymore.

“Okay, now what?” he asked excitedly.

“Now, I toss you the ‘ball’ and you catch it and toss it back,” Harper explained, shaking his head at the boy’s palpable enthusiasm. “Only you’re gonna have to tell me when you’re throwing it, so I can be ready. And be prepared to chase after it; my aim probably really stinks.”

“Got it. I’m ready,” Twig breathed.

Harper smiled. He couldn’t help himself. The boy’s excitement was, to make a bad pun, “catching.” Awkwardly, his efforts hampered by chains and crippled hands and blindness, Harper tossed the blanket in the direction Twig’s voice had come from. A few seconds later he heard a squeal of delight and realized he must not have done too badly.

“I caught it, Harper! Look, I caught it!”

“Awesome, Twig!” Harper laughed, letting the faux pas slide. “Score one for the little guy. Now toss it back, and remember this ain’t the Major Leagues.”

“Huh?” Twig’s gaunt face twisted up in confusion. Sometimes the things Harper said just didn’t make any sense.

“Never mind. Just toss the ball back to me,” Harper told him with another laugh.

“All right,” Twig giggled, “here it comes.”

Harper raised his hands and waited but nothing happened. Then he heard a distinct thump against the wall a few feet to his right.

“Oops,” Twig giggled again and scrambled over to fetch their makeshift ball. “I’m not very good.”

“Naw, you just need practice,” Harper told him. He’d realized something, to his amazement. Being blind hadn’t erased years of ingrained habits and abilities. Even blind he could still aim better than a kid that had never had the chance to learn how to toss a ball. He wasn’t sure if that meant anything, or had any real importance, but somehow it still made him feel better. “Just go back and try again. You’ll get it after a while,” Harper encouraged.

“Right,” Twig agreed, happily crawling back to his spot in the dirt, blanket-ball under his arm. “Okay, here it comes again…”

*****

Dylan stood in the doorway, silently watching his friend; or watching _over_ his friend, if you wanted to be more specific. When Twig had told him they were going outside, Dylan left the others to their cards and moved to the doorway to stand guard. There was no way he was letting his engineer out of his sight any more than he had to in this evil place.

The captain laughed slightly as he watched the game of catch. Curious, several of the youngest boys from other barracks had wandered over and joined in the sport. As they laughed and giggled, Harper gradually withdrew from the game, letting Twig go at it with those his own age, until he was left just listening as they played. His ruined hands rested limply in his lap and he leaned his head back against the wall, letting his eyes drift shut, his mask slipping to let the constant pain and weariness show through again. 

“He’s not doing so well, is he?”

Dylan turned to find Simon standing next to him, gazing at Harper sadly.

“But then,” Simon reached out and gently pushed the manacles up Dylan’s arms to reveal the ugly, inflamed skin and open wounds underneath, “neither are you.”

Dylan flinched. Simon’s words were uncomfortably true. Harper’s wounds from his ordeal with Felix might have faded to just more scars now, but that didn’t mean he was getting better. He was wasting away in this place, emotionally and physically, and Dylan had to admit he was starting to feel it as well. His heavy-gravity genes gave him a decided edge in the battle for health and survival in this camp, but even that wasn’t enough against constant starvation and back-breaking work. He could feel his energy slipping away, like suds down the shower drain. Not that he would ever admit that. Here, attitude was everything.

“We’ll make it,” Dylan told the other man firmly, pulling his hands away and looking back at Harper. “We aren’t beat yet. We’re doing just fine, just like you’re doing fine despite your cough, or your aching knees,” Dylan said knowingly.

“Ah, yes,” Simon smiled, “ever the observant one. You have me there.” They were silent for a moment more then Simon spoke again. “Seamus is a gift from the Divine for that child you know. You, as well. I know it’s small comfort, considering everything else, but Twig has never been so happy. Before you two came, I’m not even sure he remembered how to smile.”

“Why is Twig here, anyway?” Dylan looked right at Simon and asked. “Where’s his family? Why was he sent here so young? What possible good did it do?”

“I don’t know,” Simon answered honestly. “He was already here when I came, although he was quite a tiny, little child back then. They had him working the kitchens until he was big enough to be sent out here. Poor thing, the only life he knows is this camp. And because of that, I can’t answer your questions. The only ones who could ever answer them are Twig, and he doesn’t remember, or Adoniram, and he doesn’t care. Another of the deplorable results of slavery; it not only steals the lives and souls of those who are enslaved, it destroys the Nietzscheans’ as well. And that’s why slavery is so evil.”

“I don’t care what it does to the Nietzscheans, that’s still no excuse. Twig shouldn’t be here.”

“Neither should any of us,” Simon responded meaningfully. He squeezed Dylan’s shoulder before moving off to meditate on his bunk.

Dylan stood in the doorway a moment more then went over and sat down against the outside wall next to Harper. 

“Hey, Dylan,” Harper greeted without moving or turning his head.

“You’re getting good at that, you know,” Dylan acknowledged with a smile.

“It’s not that hard. You sorta clank.”

Dylan glanced at his chains and laughed wearily. “Yeah, I guess I do.” They fell silent and the captain went back to watching the little game of catch. “They’re having fun, all things considered,” he told Harper after a bit.

“Sounds like it.”

“We should petition the Niets to start up a Little League team,” Dylan joked. “Coach Harper has a nice ring to it.”

Harper laughed and finally lifted his head. “Oh yeah, I’m sure that would go over real well. What would we call the team? The Small Slave Sluggers? Or how about the Rellim No-Socks? And somehow I just don’t think the Ubers would embrace the idea of away games,” he teased back.

“Well, maybe someday…” Dylan said, his thoughts far away as the joke lost its humor. “But at any rate, it was nice of you to teach Twig how.”

“I just showed him how to throw around a tied up blanket, Dylan. It’s not quite rocket science,” Harper said tiredly, closing his eyes again. The squeals and shouts of the little slaves rose in intensity around them and Harper’s face wrinkled in worry. “The Ubers, they aren’t getting bugged by this, are they? For all we know, laughing or playing could be against the rules, too.”

Dylan scanned the area but the few Nietzscheans he saw could care less about a handful of ragged slave kids tossing around a blanket in the dirt, so far.

“The kids are fine for now, but I’ll keep an eye out and stop the game if any of the guards start our way.”

Harper nodded his thanks. He kept his eyes closed and let his head sink back against the wall again. “You know, I’ve been thinking.”

“I’d be worried if you ever quit,” Dylan told him with a grin.

Harper laughed. “ _Now_ you appreciate my brain cells. Oh, the irony…”

“I always appreciated your brain cells,” Dylan defended. “I just didn’t always appreciate the mess you made when you used them. Anyway, what have you been thinking about?”

“This place: the planet, the slave camp, what we’re doing here…”

“Last I checked, I thought we were mining…”

“Yes,” Harper agreed, sitting up straight and turning to Dylan with that look he got whenever he was about to wax technical, “but _what_ are we mining?”

“I don’t know; coal, minerals, uranium?” Dylan guessed, not sure why it mattered what they were being forced to give their sweat and blood to. Whatever it was, the point was it was killing them.

“Try none of the above. I have no idea what it’s called, whatever we’re digging up, but I’m convinced it’s not anything you’d normally think of, even the rare stuff.”

Dylan really was intrigued now, and had to admit that once again his engineer had managed to catch him off guard. He was ashamed but he’d sort of assumed that when his friend’s eyes stopped working his brain did too, or at least became preoccupied. He _should_ have realized that even locked in his dark world, that brilliant brain was still going full throttle, taking in new information and trying to make sense of it; solving problems, finding answers.

“Think about it,” Harper continued, his voice gaining life as he spoke. “Nothing on this planet makes sense. You said it looks like a paradise world, all green and clean and fresh. That alone is completely insane. Every slave world I’ve ever seen or heard of has been reduced by the Dragans to ashes, filth, and grime within fifty years of occupation. Why not this one? And why make us walk all the way here? I mean, I’ll be the first to admit it makes great torture, _and_ the Niets pretty much have the market cornered on torture, but they also aren’t big on needless inconvenience. Taking three weeks to drag a couple of slaves and some supplies across a planet by horse and wagon is definitely an inconvenience. Why not use a glider, or a hovercraft, or even a good old-fashioned truck?”

Harper was really on a roll now, sounding very much like his old self. His words were rapid and he kept trying to accentuate them with his hands, annoyance crossing his face when the chains abruptly halted his motions.

“And then there’s this camp itself,” Harper said, gesturing vaguely to the unseen place around him. “Why are we mining with picks and shovels and dynamite? Why am I playing pack-mule for fourteen hours a day? Torture issues aside once again, wouldn’t a few dozen mining bots and a cargo ship do the job better than a couple hundred, half-dead slaves?”

“Well, you did tell me that this was the most feared camp in the Dragan empire,” Dylan offered. “Is it possible this place is only for punishment and the Dragans could care less about profit or productivity?”

“Maybe, but that still leaves too many unanswered questions. If this camp is just a place to punish and work to death unruly slaves, trouble-makers, and people the Dragans don’t like, why is it so primitive? From what I can tell there’s not an electronic lock in the place. Even these chains we’re modeling have conventional locks, mind you they’re microscopic and too small to pick, but they’re still basic mechanics. The fences aren’t even electrified! Then there are these nice, little slave tags we’re all sporting. You know as well as I do they pack a nasty punch, but have the Ubers even used them once since we got here?”

Dylan saw where the young man was going immediately. “Why send your most dangerous prisoners to a camp and not take increased security measures, even if you’re just going to work them into the grave, right?”

“Exactly,” Harper said triumphantly, his trademark index finger pointed at Dylan, pain momentarily forgotten. “Where are the security cameras, the stun guns, the electric cattle-prods? Trust me when I say Dragan slavers are nuts for those things. _And_ ,” Harper pointed again to emphasize his words, “if this camp is purely a death camp to punish disobedient slaves, why draw in so many locals from the planet to make sure the workforce is continually stocked?”

“So you think what we’re mining is actually valuable to the Dragans?”

“No, I _know_ it’s valuable, at least to Felix,” Harper said, tapping his dataport meaningfully. “I just wasn’t sure why or how it fit in with everything else at first.”

Dylan caught the gesture and his curiosity spiked even more. The round, metal disk just behind the boy’s ear was still surrounded by an ugly scar, but Dylan had never asked what happened to it. He figured it was just connected with another form of torture Harper had been forced to endure, but now he wondered if there might be more to it. “Your dataport?” he asked carefully. “What does your dataport have to do with what we’re mining?”

Harper grimaced slightly. He’d never told Dylan that Felix had completely fried his port out; it kind of got overshadowed by later events. He was sure the captain could tell it was damaged, but they never got around to talking about it. And to be honest, Harper had sort of forgotten about it himself, along the file he’d stolen. He’d had more pressing concerns and the file hadn’t made a whole lot of sense. Now, provided his theories were correct, it did. 

“Not my port so much as what I learned while using it, what’s stored inside it,” Harper explained.

“Huh?”

Harper decided he’d better back up a bit. “Felix sent me into his matrix, back when we were on his ship, forced me to fix something. It was just another one of his little power games to remind me I was his, body, mind and soul, and the repairs could have been easily done from the outside, but he’s an Uber, so go figure. Anyway, he rigged the matrix so I could only do exactly what he wanted me to, but you know me and rules… I grabbed a couple of files on the way out and stashed them in my port, just to spite him. One was actually pretty important, but I didn’t know how or why, and then with the whole crucifixion and dying and coming back to life and blinding stuff going on, it kinda slipped my mind,” Harper shrugged, like it was no big deal that he’d just listed off more atrocities done to him than most people could even imagine. He didn’t wait long enough for Dylan to comment, either. “I only got one look at it, a nanoseconds worth of time, and it’s not like I can go back and look over it again. It’s stuck in my port, never actually downloaded it to my memory, and Felix took the precaution of frying my dataport when he was done with me, so it ain’t getting out any time soon. But I do remember what I saw, and I’ve been thinking about it.” 

Harper’s words were rapid and Dylan had to take a moment to grasp everything he’d just learned in that little speech. He focused first on the most alarming item. “So, wait a minute, are you saying he broke your dataport, on top of everything else?” he asked angrily.

“Yeah, fried it right out, just like the old eyes,” Harper tried to sound nonchalant. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Dylan was upset.

“What good would it have done? It’s not like I can use it here, which, by the way, just reaffirms my point, and it’s kinda the least of our worries right now?” Harper said firmly. “Which brings us back to the topic of discussion…”

“Okay, but we’ll talk more about this later,” Dylan answered in a tone that brooked no argument. “So, how is this all connected and why do I get the feeling I won’t like what Felix is up to?”

“Because you’re stuck in his slave camp, waiting to die?” Harper quipped.

“Ah, well, besides that,” Dylan qualified, smiling. For the first time in weeks, they were having what felt like a normal, every-day conversation between captain and engineer. It felt nice, and he could see Harper was relishing it as well.

“Let me ask you a few questions first,” Harper parried. “When we were back in that town we first docked in, did you notice much technology?”

Dylan furrowed his brow in thought. It seemed like years ago that he and Harper had been in the docking town. He had noted the conflicting levels of technology but Harper had been in no condition to discuss it, and then the basic struggle to keep them both alive, to just survive, drove it from his mind. "Yeah, there was definitely technology in the town," Dylan told his friend, trying to remember back to what he'd seen. "But nothing like what you’d expect from a space-going planet."

"The town, it was a sea-port, too, wasn't it? Next to the ocean?"

"Yeah," Dylan said, marveling that Harper had picked the sounds of the ocean up when he'd been in agony at the time and so disoriented and afraid. "But what does that have to do with anything?" 

"I don't know," Harper shrugged, "might be important, might not. Just thinking out loud here. So, you didn't see any signs of modern technology outside of the town, right?"

"No," Dylan answered then paused. "Unless you want to count all the wrecked ships and such that we started to pass after a while…" he added thoughtfully, realizing now how odd that should have struck him. "Where are you going with all this, Mr. Harper?"

The sounds of Twig and the others laughing and playing became suddenly louder and broke into their conversation. Dylan glanced up just in time to narrowly avoid being whacked in the face by the blanket-ball. He smiled and caught it, tossing it back to Twig who grinned sheepishly. When he turned back, Harper was leaning against the barrack wall again with his eyes shut, reminding Dylan how tired the boy probably was.

"On Earth," Harper spoke without moving, trusting that the captain was listening, "we used to talk about Rellim. It really was the most feared place in the Dragan's empire. Mothers used it to make their children obey. You know, 'get into bed this instant or I'll let them send you to the mines on Rellim'…that sort of thing. Some people said it was just one, big, never-ending pit – fire and brimstone, torment and pain. Others would tell you there was no planet called Rellim, it was all just a cover. The Ubers really just took you off and tortured you to death, or sent you to be experimented on. Still others said it was one, huge floating brothel and you can guess on your own what role the slaves played. See, that's why Rellim was so scary. No one really knew what it was or what happened to you there because _no one ever came back_! _Ever_! One day you were talking to your neighbor, the next he ticked the Ubers off, and the next you found out he was off to Rellim and you never saw him again. We heard rumors that ships didn't even stop at Rellim; if it weren't for the Niets dragging their slaves there, Rellim would have been a forgotten planet."

Harper paused as if gathering his thoughts, then turned his face toward Dylan. "I bet you never heard of it, right? Not three-hundred years ago and not now; not until you sold yourself for me to get sent here, that is." 

Harper's words made Dylan pause as well. It was true. He'd never heard of this planet, and he realized how unusual that was. It was right in the middle of known space, along well-used shipping routes. He should have remembered hearing about it before, known if it was Commonwealth or not, but he hadn't. Until Harper told him they were going there, he'd never even heard the name. "No, I hadn't heard of it," he admitted, puzzled and wondering just how Harper was going to tie all of this together, and if he'd have the energy to keep talking long enough to do it.

"Okay, well here's what I think, and mind you, this is only a theory. I can't exactly run any simulations, plan any tests, heck I can't even look around!" Harper said bitterly. His words now were direct and to the point, his weariness showing in his lack of the usual embellishments or self-congratulations. "I think there’s something on this planet –something in the soil or in the crust – that inhibits electricity, or things that use electrical charges and such. That's why the technology is so primitive; nothing works here. Ships can't land and if they try, they crash; hence all the wrecks. The planet is so untouched because it isn't worth the effort for the Ubers to trash it manually. That defeats the point of trashing it. And I'm pretty sure whatever this unknown mineral or component is, that’s what we're mining."

Dylan glanced at his engineer, again surprised at the young man. Not for the first time he wondered what made him tick, how such a little, odd, hyper body could house such a brilliant mind. And how said mind could work on, undeterred, amidst such daunting circumstances. He’d always trusted the boy, known he was good at what he did, but he realized now he’d probably sorely underestimated the kid.

“Okay, so if ships crash when they approach the planet, how are the Nietzscheans able to bring their slaves here? How did we land safely? We did come in a ship, Harper.”

“I know that, Boss,” Harper replied a little huffily. “Don’t get your bloomers in a bunch, I’m getting to that.”

“Sorry,” Dylan backed down with a smile.

“I think, and once again this is all guessing, but somehow the city is protected. I’m not sure if it’s because it’s shielded somehow or if it’s a natural phenomenon, I’d have to get a look at it to know, but something is countering the effects of the mineral there. I’m betting it’s natural, though, or at least something natural that Felix has found a way to amplify. Maybe there’s something in the water of the ocean that neutralizes the mineral? That’s what I’m thinking, anyway. If it weren’t natural, how did people ever manage to travel by ship here and survive? Someone sometime had to have discovered that place was a sweet spot; they landed, lived, and built a city. And then Felix found it.”

Dylan gazed out into the distance, thinking over Harper’s ideas. He had to admit it made sense, a lot of sense, and answered quite a few questions he hadn’t even realized he had. But, it didn’t explain why anyone would want to purposefully mine something that would wreak havoc with their technology. That seemed stupid; very _anti_ -survival, especially for a Nietzschean. 

Speaking of Nietzscheans, Dylan was so caught up in the conversation he almost missed the guard that was heading toward them, drawn by the sounds of the little slaves. The boys were totally oblivious as well, caught up in their game that had grown a little wild with excitement.

Harper continued speaking, unaware. “At first the Niets must have seen it as a waste to try and conquer the planet, but Felix’s father, or grandfather, or some relative figured–”

“Harper,” Dylan cut in quickly, “there’s a guard coming and I don’t think he should hear this conversation.”

The engineer sat up sharply, worry and fear instantly on his face. 

“Can you find your own way back inside?” Dylan asked, helping him to his feet. “I need to stop the game and get Twig. This guard looks like he’s had a really bad day.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Harper replied quickly, reaching out to touch the barrack wall with his arm. “Go get the kids before they get in trouble!”

Dylan squeezed his shoulder supportively and left. “Twig!” he called, walking swiftly into the game. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Harper guiding himself along the wall toward the open doorway. “Twig,” he said again, taking his arm, “I think it’s time to stop now. _Bedtime_ ,” he emphasized pointedly, tilting his head in the direction of the approaching guard. The little boy’s eyes widened to saucer size as he followed the movement and the other kids instantly scattered back to their own barracks. Twig grabbed his blanket up off the ground where it had landed just as the Niet stopped in front of them. Dylan pulled the boy protectively behind him, and then properly ducked his head.

“Master?” he asked, hoping he sounded submissive.

“This is wanton destruction of Drago-Kazov property!” the guard growled menacingly, plucking the blanket-ball from Twig’s trembling hands. “Where did you learn this?”

Twig cringed but said nothing. 

“I showed him how, Master,” Dylan replied quickly. He noticed that Harper had stopped in the doorway of the barrack and was listening intently. Afraid the engineer might do something stupid, Dylan hurried on. “I’m sorry, Master, I didn’t know it was forbidden and I showed him how. I shouldn’t have, and I apologize. The boy didn’t know he was doing anything wrong, though, and he’ll never do it again.” Twig nodded emphatically, not looking up from the dust at the Uber’s feet as Dylan begged.

The guard mulled this over, but the first curfew whistle sounded before he could speak. He really didn’t have time or the desire to deal with this right now; he was needed on door-duty. Annoyed, he stuffed the blanket in his shirt. “I’ll keep this. Until you learn to respect the gifts so graciously given to you by your benefactors, you can do without. Half rations for two days for both of you. Now, get in your barrack!” he spat.

Dylan didn’t wait to be told twice. Chains clanking, he grabbed Twig by the shoulder and rushed them both past an approaching Marcus to the doorway where Harper was waiting for them, a scowl on his face.

“Boss, you shouldn’t have –”

“Not now, Harper,” Dylan told him firmly, steering them all inside and away from Nietzschean eyes. Twig was shaking like a leaf, tears leaking down his cheeks from the fear of what could have happened to them and from shame because he got his friends in trouble. “Yell at me later for lying, but let me help Twig right now, okay,” he whispered to the Earther.

Harper closed his mouth and nodded, realizing there were things going on that he couldn’t see. He made his way over to their pile of straw and picked up one of their blankets, holding it out to the captain. “Go on, I’ll just be here, counting my lice and teaching my fleas new tricks.”

“You can make them give me a show when I get back,” Dylan smiled as he gently forced Twig to take the offered blanket, knowing Harper felt bad the boy got in trouble for something he taught him. “And we’ll finish our conversation as well. I don’t think you were quite done hypothesizing.”

It took Dylan a while to calm Twig down and get him to keep the blanket and climb into his bunk. By the time he got back to his own “cozy corner,” Harper had lost his battle with exhaustion. The young man was out cold where he sat leaning against the wall, waiting for Dylan. The captain moved him carefully onto his side on top of the remaining blanket and then lay down himself. The rest of his questions and answers would just have to wait for another time.


	35. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34**

_So you speak to me of sadness  
And the coming of the winter,  
The fear that is within you now  
That seems to never end.  
And the dreams that have escaped you,  
And the hope that you’ve forgotten,  
And you tell me that you need me now  
And you want to be my friend._

_And you wonder where we’re going  
Where’s the rhyme and where’s the reason,  
And it’s you cannot accept  
It is here we must begin,  
To seek the wisdom of the children  
And the graceful way of flowers in the wind…_

\- John Denver

*****

When the morning whistle shrieked the start of the next day, Dylan rolled over slowly, opened his tired eyes, and stared right into the face of a corpse.

He swore harshly and jerked backwards, shuddering.

“What?” Harper asked quickly, sitting up next to him.

Dylan forcefully controlled his breathing. There was no reason for this to get to him so badly; he’d seen dead bodies before. He was soldier; he was trained to deal with this. But he’d never woken up next to a corpse that he’d been talking to just the night before.

“Dylan, what is it?” Harper asked again.

“Our neighbor didn’t make it through the night,” Dylan told him sadly, grimacing as he reached out and closed the poor man’s eyes. “He’s dead.”

“Oh, is that all?” Harper asked. “I thought it was an Uber or you were hurt or something.”

Dylan stared in shock at the boy, surprised by his calloused response. “This man just died and all you can say is ‘oh’?”

“Boss, he’s probably a lot happier right now than we are,” Harper said, getting to his feet. “You get used to it, Dylan.”

“Used to it? You mean you’ve woken up next to dead people before?”

“Yes.”

And thus ended their morning conversation. Dylan took the dead man’s legs and Simon came over and grabbed his arms and they carried him out to join the small line of other slaves who gave up the fight in the night. 

It took all of five minutes; they weren’t even late for breakfast. 

And no one shed even one tear. Life, such as it was, went on.

*****

By mid-afternoon, Dylan was really feeling the effects of the half-rations. He was dizzy and lightheaded and having a hard time focusing on the rocks he was supposed to be shoveling into buckets. Unable to move as fast as usual, his own back was burning from the whip before too long, but that wasn’t as painful as the ache in his gut. He was hungrier than he’d ever thought it was possible to be. He realized, to his shame, that he was so hungry he would cheerfully beg for or steal food, if the opportunity arose, and not think twice about it. It scared him.

To keep his mind off the empty pit in his stomach, he went back over the conversation from the day before. Harper had given him a lot to think about and left him with quite a few questions he still wanted answers to. Why was Felix mining the mineral? What did he plan to do with it? What was on the file Harper had stolen? 

More importantly, what did all this mean for them? Surely there had to be some way this could work to their advantage? Some way this knowledge could help them in an escape?

Too bad he just couldn’t see how…

*****

“How’s Twig doing?” Dylan asked as he settled wearily on their straw for the evening. Harper had just finished the latest installment of _Jack and the Beanstalk_ and sent the kid back to his own bunk. 

“Rather listless and quiet tonight,” the engineer answered. “I think he still feels bad, even though I’ve told him a thousand times not to. Poor little runt.”

Dylan shifted so he was leaning against the wall, side-by-side with his young friend, and let his tired hands dangle from the tops of his knees.

“Here,” Harper said, holding something out to the captain on his good hand, “I saved this for you.”

Dylan looked at the offered roll and pushed Harper’s hand back. “Harper, I can’t take your food! You need it just as much or more than I do!”

“Boss, let me give you a little lesson in mass and energy. Large mass needs more energy. Small mass needs less energy. Me equals small mass, you equals – no offence – large mass. Therefore, conclusion: you need it more than I do. Now take it or I’ll let Templeton the Rat have it just for fun.”

Dylan took it, and felt disgusted for wanting it so badly.

Harper tactfully waited for Dylan to devour the hard roll before he spoke again. “So, where were we yesterday, before we were so rudely interrupted?”

“I think I was about to ask you why the heck Felix has us mining this junk when it’s worse than Trance for machinery.”

With his head tilted slightly to better hear Dylan in the noisy barrack, Harper actually grinned at the comment. “I’m gonna tell her you said that.”

“You do that,” Dylan agreed. “So, why _does_ Felix want this stuff?”

“Well, think about it. Let’s say there’s a bunch of people, bugs, chin-heads, fish-dudes out there that you really don’t like. And then let’s say you happened to find something that could completely mess up everything from their toasters to their slip-drives. What would you do with it?”

“Weapons?” Dylan asked, looking at the engineer in alarm.

“Yup.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, no, I’m not positive, but I’m pretty sure I’m right.”

“But, how could he use them? How would he even make them, or transport them? Wouldn’t that be like shooting yourself in the behind to even bring them onboard?”

“Yes, unless you have a way to contain the mineral or shield yourself from it,” Harper said pointedly.

Dylan caught on immediately, “Which we know he does because of the docking town…”

“Uh huh,” Harper said gloomily. 

“Do you know how to block it?”

“No.”

“But you could figure it out, right?”

“Well, yeah, maybe… If things were, you know, different…”

Dylan changed the subject slightly. “So what was on the file you nicked?”

“Oh, that.” Harper smirked. “That would be Felix’s equivalent of a little black book. Or, a more appropriate term might be, his hit list. The Commonwealth sits at a nice, easy number two.”

“So, unless we get out of here and back to the _Andromeda_ to warn them, the Commonwealth is not only going to be facing the arrival of the World-ship, but attack from Felix as well? An attack they’ll never see coming, not be able to prepare for, and have no way of fighting?”

“Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.”

“Lovely,” Dylan sighed, slouching back against the logs of the barrack wall. “It’s never easy.”

“Sorry, Boss,” Harper said quietly, turning to face him even though his blue eyes drifted away.

“Not your fault, Mr. Harper,” Dylan assured softly. “I just hate being so helpless and unable to do anything.”

“You’re not the only one. I shudder to think of this junk coming within five clicks of my Rom-Doll!”

“There has to be a way we can use this to our advantage?” Dylan said, desperation creeping into his voice. “Couldn’t the lack of technology give us an edge in escaping somehow?”

Harper turned away. “I’ve been thinking of that, too, Boss. The answer’s probably both yes and no. Yes in the fact that it would be easier to get through barbed-wire than electric fencing or a force-shield. And if we did get out, they would have no way to track us other than the good, old-fashioned way. But no in that we’re both completely out of our element here. That and the Nietzscheans are fully aware of their lack of tech and as a result they have this place locked down tighter than a Nightsider’s bank account.”

“Well, don’t give up yet, Harper,” Dylan said, patting the boy on the shoulder. “We _will_ get out of here. We’ve got more than just our own survival to think of now.”

Harper just shrugged.

The first curfew whistle sounded but since Dylan and Harper were already inside, they didn’t have anywhere to go. 

“Incidentally,” Dylan asked suddenly, “who’s number one on Felix’s list?”

Harper smirked again. “Oh, that’s the really interesting part; the part I’m sure Felix doesn’t want anyone else to know about. Sitting securely at number one on the “People and Places to Blow Up” list is the Drago-Kazov homeworld.”

Dylan’s head whipped around to stare at his engineer, not sure he’d heard that correctly. Harper seemed to anticipate the captain’s move and smiled. “Yes, you heard me right.”

Dylan sucked in a low whistle through his teeth. “Our little Gaius Felix wants to single-handedly rule the universe, doesn’t he?”

“Bingo.”

“And before he can do that, he has to eliminate the competition in his own back yard… Smart guy, for a freak.”

“Can’t say I’d cry over the loss of a few Dragans,” Harper admitted. “ _But_ ,” he stressed, holding up a hand to stop the captain’s lecture, “there’s no way on earth I want Felix top-dog in the galaxy either, so I’m with you on the stopping of the plan plan, even step one.”

They fell silent for a while, each reviewing and digesting the conversation. Around them, the sounds of the barrack gradually quieted with sleep and the stillness created a rather solemn atmosphere.

Harper drew his knees stiffly to his chest and wrapped his chained hands around them, his gaze staring straight ahead into nothingness. Dylan glanced at him and noticed his features were sad and weary.

“Harper, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Harper, we’re in this too deep for you to start claming up on me now. What’s wrong?”

Harper sighed and pulled his knees in tighter. “You keep saying we’re gonna get out of here, it’s gonna be okay, hang in there until we escape,” Harper said softly. “Let’s say you’re right, and we do get out of here. Then what?”

“Then we go back to _Andromeda_ and show Felix why he shouldn’t mess with us,” Dylan said firmly.

“Both of us?”

Dylan looked at his friend carefully. “Of course both of us. You’re my engineer, Harper.”

“Some engineer I’ll make, blind with a busted hunk of metal in my neck instead of a dataport and hands that I can barely use,” he said, his voice catching. “Honestly, what good am I gonna be?”

“Harper, don’t talk like that!”

“Why not? Dylan, I can’t _see_!” 

Dylan scooted around so he was directly in front of the young man, his empty stomach forgotten. “Harper, listen to me,” he ordered, putting his hands on the boy’s arms as he sat holding his knees. “We will figure something out. I promise you.”

“You sure you won’t just dump me on the first drift you pass?” Harper asked in a tiny voice, real fear showing through.

“Never! I would never, ever do that, okay! You’re still a part of my crew, no matter what’s happened or what’s changed. And more than that, you’re my friend.”

“But it would probably be better for all of us,” Harper said brokenly. “I’m just gonna get in the way…”

“Harper, what Felix did to you was horrible. I can’t even begin to imagine what it must be like for you, blind and hurting, here in this place. But you have to remember the rest of the universe is not like this cesspit, or even like Earth. There are doctors and hospitals and medical facilities. I promise you we’ll try each and every one of them to see if they can fix your eyes and your hands. I don’t care if we have to mortgage the whole planet of Tarazed to do it!”

Harper said nothing as he took in the captain’s words. He didn’t know how to describe the tumult of emotions and despair inside of him. Engineering was his life, his passion. To him it was more than fixing things, or building things, or playing with tools and wires and formulas; it was art, beauty, something that gave his life meaning. When Felix burned out eyes, he also burned a hole in his heart and every day the darkness continued the hole grew a little larger, encroaching on that place where his love of life and engineering was. The longer they were stuck here, the more he got used to existing in the dark, the more he was afraid he’d lose it for good, forget how. He was starting to believe that even if they did get out, he would never see again, and what good was a blind engineer? He loved his work too much to do it half-way. Finally, he ducked his head and whispered to his friend the fear that haunted him the most. “What if they can’t be fixed?”

The captain’s first instinct was to forcefully deny that possibility, assure the boy that everything could be fixed and life would go back to normal, but he found he couldn’t. Harper was the one person he could never sugarcoat things with, especially not after what they’d been through together. It was obvious the kid had been dwelling on this, even if this was the first time he had voiced his thoughts out loud. Harper deserved more than a quick brush off.

“If, for some reason, they can’t be fixed then we find a way to work around it. And we do it together. Me, you, and the rest of the crew. We’re more than just a motley crew; we’ve been through too much together. We’re a family now and you’re a part of this family, Harper. Families stick together, no matter what. If Beka were here, she wouldn’t put up with you saying things like that, she wouldn’t let you give up. Well, neither will I,” Dylan said firmly, squeezing the boy’s arms gently.

Harper sucked in a breath that sounded more like a sob, and he turned his face away but no tears came. “I’m just so tired of the dark!” he cried. “I’m so tired of being afraid and of feeling helpless and lost! I wish he would have cut off my feet, or my hands, or my ears! Anything besides take my sight!”

Dylan didn’t know what to say to such obvious anguish so he just sat there, hoping Harper could find some comfort in the presence of a friend.

“Did you ever watch someone you loved get killed?” Harper asked abruptly, turning his face back to the captain, an earnest expression covering it.

The sudden change of topics and the grimness of the question threw Dylan for a minute. He struggled to answer. “Well, I’ve seen people die before. And I’ve had people I loved – family members – die before, but no, I’ve never seen anyone murder a person I loved. Why?”

“I have,” Harper answered simply. “When I was thirteen I watched the Nietzschean slavers murder my parents. Watched them laugh as they slit my dad’s throat, make sport as they had their fun with my mom and then beat her to death.” Harper’s voice was small, like a child’s, and Dylan listened in shocked sadness. “I was hiding like they told me and I saw it all. But the worst part is I could have stopped it. The slavers, Felix’s men I found out later, had come for me. If I would have gone with them, my parents might still be alive. It was all my fault. But they wouldn’t let me; they made me hide and so I watched as Felix took my family from me.” 

The boy paused and turned his blind eyes right at Dylan. “Dylan, I miss Beka so much!” he cried. “I never thought I would get a family again. Never thought I’d find someone who could actually love a skinny, dirty mudfoot from Earth, but Beka did! She took me in and treated me like a little brother. Then I meet Rev and Trance and you guys and it just felt so good, so nice and right.” His voice caught. “Felix may not have slit anyone’s throat this time, but he still took my family away again.”

He stopped and gulped in some air to continue. “I’m afraid, Boss. Nothing good in my life ever lasts for long and I’m afraid they’re gone forever. What if I never see Beka again? I’ll never get to tell her how much she meant to me.”

The despair was thick in the air between them. For the first time, Dylan realized exactly how depressed and discouraged his young friend was. His worry skyrocketed. His engineer was in a very dark place right now, and not just because he was blind, and the captain wasn’t sure he could say anything that would bring him out of it. The only thing that would ever fix that was to get out of this awful place and back to the world of the living.

Finally, he just said the only thing he could think of, keeping his hands on Harper’s arms so the boy wouldn’t feel so alone in the dark. “He didn’t take everyone, Harper. I’m still here and I’m not going anywhere. Whatever happens, we’re in it together, okay?” 

After a moment, Harper nodded slightly. Then he shook the captain’s hands off and lay down, arranging his chains to try and sleep. Dylan sighed and followed suit, knowing he’d need his energy to get through another day of practically no food. 

But as he lay there, he couldn’t help thinking they were running out of time.


	36. Chapter 35

**Chapter 35**

_Each time I see the Upside-Down Man  
Standing in the water,  
I look at him and start to laugh,  
Although I shouldn’t oughtter.  
For maybe in another world  
Another time  
Another town,  
Maybe HE is right side up  
And I am upside down._

\- Shel Silverstein

*****

“Jack jumped off the beanstalk and rushed into the tool shed. He could hear the giant Uber’s thunderous laughter behind him, feel the ground shaking as he stomped down the big plant after the boy. Jack knew he had to hurry! Desperately, he pulled boxes off the shelves and threw them to the ground, looking for something to chop the stalk down with. Finally, his hand closed on his trusty nanowelder. He grabbed the tool and raced back to the beanstalk, firing it up as he ran…”

*****

“Hey, Dylan?”

Harper’s voice rang across the crowded barrack. Dylan looked up from the cards in his hands and back toward their sleeping spot where the young engineer was. As much as Harper relied on his help now and wanted him close, he also knew the young man sometimes tired of his hovering, needed his space. When they were “safe” in the barrack, Dylan occasionally left the boy to his own thoughts in an attempt to give him a small measure of privacy. But he was never out of sight or ear-shot, and Harper knew that.

“Yes, Harper?” Dylan answered, wondering what was wrong. So far, Harper had never called him back, knowing he would return soon enough as it was.

“Come over here for a minute,” Harper said.

Dylan promptly gave his cards to Twig who had been “helping” him, and told the boy to take over as he climbed stiffly to his feet.

His engineer was sitting on their pile of straw, the blanket in his lap covering his crippled hand. As the captain approached, the boy turned his head, listening for the sound of Dylan’s chains.

“What’s up, Harper?” Dylan asked, purposefully trying to make his voice sound normal. It was all they had these days, this little game of vocal charades. 

“Why did you take my blanket back from Twig?” Harper asked, his voice confused and a little angry at the same time. “I gave it to him. The kid needs it more than I do!”

Dylan’s eyebrows drew together in confusion, and he crouched down next to Harper. “I didn’t take it back, Harper. Why do you think I would?”

Wordlessly, Harper held up two blankets.

Dylan scratched his head. “Where’d you get those?”

“They were laying right here, in the corner where you always put our blanket,” Harper explained.

“Are you sure you didn’t grab someone else’s by mistake?”

If he could have, Harper would have skewered Dylan with a glare. “My eyes are broken, Dylan, not my brain.”

Dylan held his hands up. “Sorry, just asking! So where did it come from then?”

“Did Twig try to give it back?” Harper asked.

Dylan called the boy over, but Twig was just as confused as they were.

“Simon?” Harper suggested next, but it wasn’t the Wayist’s either. Further inquiry left them totally stumped as Ethan, Peter, and Dakin all successively denied having anything to do with the mysterious extra blanket. Finally, Dylan lay down beside Harper to sleep, both on their own blanket again for the first time since the little game of catch.

“Apparently, our prison grows blankets,” Harper murmured to him.

“Guess it could be worse. Better blankets then spatulas.”

 _Spatulas_? Harper raised an eyebrow. Wow, slave life was really frying his captain’s brain, he thought as he drifted to sleep, mystery still unsolved.

*****

“Hey there, handsome…”

The flaming red-head sashayed up to the Nietzschean, hips swaying seductively in her tight, leather skirt. “I got something I wanna show you…” she drawled, winking. 

The Nietzschean leered. She was human, but he couldn’t hold that against her. Genetics had still been kind to her, _very_ kind, he thought as his eyes swept up and down, taking it all in.

“Yeah, what do you want to show me?” he asked, expectantly. His job was extremely boring; he could use a nice distraction.

“Come over here and find out…”

The Uber moved two steps away from his post and she stepped up to meet him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her mouth to his.

 _Ewww! Yuck!_ Beka’s brain screamed. It was all she could do to keep from gagging, but as she watched Rommie slip silently through the doorway and into the computer maintenance room, her smile became real. _Bingo. Step one down, only three hundred and seventy six to go._

She turned her attention back to her “guest.” He was getting a little too friendly and she had to bite her lip to keep from decking him as she played along.

_Rommie, you’d darn well better hurry in there…_

*****

“Hey, Boss.”

“Hey, Harper.”

“How was work today?”

“Oh, you know, same old, same old… You?”

“Ugh, the same. The lighting sucks, though. Gonna put in a complaint to the Uber division of Work Place Safety.”

“Let me know how that goes…”

“Sure thing, Boss.”

*****

Rommie glanced over her shoulder one more time but, thanks to Beka, the Nietzschean guard was totally preoccupied. Trusting the pilot to keep him that way, Rommie turned back to the computer panel in front of her.

This drift was by no means the crown jewel in the Dragan’s collection, but then again, that was why they’d chosen it. It was rundown, disgusting, and literally falling apart, but it was still a Drago-Kazov drift and as such was connected to the Dragan’s main intelligence network.

It was all part of the plan. The universe was a very large place and Harper and Dylan just small, fragile humans. Without a method to their searching they might as well just stand on an asteroid and shout their names, hoping for a reply. So, Rommie had done something she hated herself for but knew was necessary; on a hunch she’d violated Harper’s trust and privacy and overrode his security locks. Her suspicion was correct, though. Buried far back in a stack of personal journals (who knew Harper kept a journal!) was a large, encrypted file on one Gaius Felix which included a “Do Not Vacation Here – EVER!” list. All these years and Harper was still running, still afraid. It made her incredibly sad and angry at the same time. Apologizing to her absent engineer and friend, Rommie copied the list word for word.

Still, it was a very long list, over 250 planets and drifts included. It was a start, but they needed more than that to go on. They needed information, any information that might give them a place within that list to begin. So she and Beka had agreed a little computer hacking was long overdue, and trust the former freighter pilot to have just the plan. The fact that Beka already had the outfit hanging in her closet told Rommie this wasn’t exactly a new plan, and she decided she didn’t really want to know how many times Beka had pulled this stunt with Harper filling in the role she was currently playing. But then again, it might be fun to hear, and as the ship’s avatar she really should know as much about her crew as…

 _Focus, Rommie_ she chided herself, even though her musings had only take .004 of a nanosecond, every nanosecond counted! She placed her slim hand over the access portal and slipped inside the computer mainframe.

*****

Harper squirmed slightly as he sat next to Dylan on their straw.

After the third or fourth time, the captain must have noticed.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Harper?” the man’s voice cut through the darkness around him.

“Nothing, Boss…” Harper murmured, even as he squirmed again.

“Harper…”

Harper sighed. He knew that tone of voice. That was Dylan’s “captain voice,” and he knew better than to not answer, but still… There were some things a man didn’t like to discuss with his boss!

“It’s nothing really, and I’m sure you’re having…um…similar issues…” He trailed off but Dylan’s silence told him his answer wasn’t satisfactory. “Okay, look, Boss. Let’s just say that the “au natural” approach to living coupled with the water-conservation practices around here have started to cause certain problems under there… You know, with the _underwear_. I hope you like new life forms because I think there’s a colony starting in my shorts.”

“Oh.”

Dylan didn’t say anything else for a long time. Harper wished he could see the blushing; it might have made the chaffing worth it. “Hey, at least we don’t need any starch,” he offered with a resigned grin as he fought the urge to squirm again, and lost.

*****

“No.”

“Come on…”

“Absolutely not! I will not permit myself to be seen in such a ridiculous get-up, and I would advise you to stop pestering me or I may not go to this stupid meeting at all!”

“Tyr, you have to. Beka’s counting on you, the Bix Tan are counting on you, and mostly, Dylan is counting on you. He would do it.”

Tyr eyed the golden girl with disdain. “Of that I have no doubt. But just because the great Captain Hunt is willing to shove all pride and self-respect aside in order to get every pathetic back-water planet and rock into his glorious Commonwealth does not mean that I, Tyr Anasazi, am! For the last time, no!”

The large man turned to exit Command but Trance moved around him lithely and blocked the door. She help out the rainbow colored garment that looked suspiciously like a bathrobe one more time.

“Tyr, it’s Bix Tannien custom! As the one who is bearing all six stones, you represent their highest deity! According to their writings, wearing this robe is the highest honor bestowed on their planet. Refusing will be seen as a personal insult.”

“I don’t care. I will not wear that clown suit!”

Trance planted her feet. “Let me put it this way then, Tyr. You will go down to the ceremony this evening and you will wear this robe. If you do that, all will be well with the universe and you’ll live long, have many children and be the founder of a great Pride. However, if you do not wear this robe and go down to that ceremony, you won’t live long, you won’t have many children, you won’t be the founder of anything, and I’ll have a nasty mess to clean up. I do so hate cleaning up messes, don’t you?”

For just a moment the harmless girl was replaced by something colder, something slightly wicked. Her eyes flashed with the same light that glinted off the knife Tyr could suddenly see strapped to her thigh. The air of Command seemed to drop about ten degrees.

“Well, if you put it like that…” Tyr took the robe. “Your wish is my command, milady,” he bowed slightly.

Trance giggled and the coldness vanished, leaving Tyr to wonder if it had ever been there. “Why thank you, Tyr!”

Gathering up the offending garment, he marched past her but stopped after a few steps. Without turning around, he spoke. “Whatever you are, you are no harmless child. I liked you better when you were purple.” 

Trance’s answer floated back to him as he walked away.

“So did I.”

*****

Beka walked out of the _Maru_ ’s fresher, her hair still damp. She was wearing loose sweats and a tank top and gargling the strongest mouthwash she could find. She swished it around a few more times then stepped up to the small galley sink and spat it out.

“Ugh! That was vile, and nasty, and inhumane!” she said with a shudder to the android that was sitting calmly at the _Maru_ ’s counter. Wordlessly, Rommie handed her a fresh mug of coffee.

Beka took the peace offering but still pinned the other woman with a glare. “I swear you took longer in there than you had to.”

“Well, I will admit to finding your distraction tactics somewhat fascinating…” Rommie easily ducked the fuzzy slipper that sailed her way, “…but seriously, I just wanted to make sure I hadn’t missed anything.”

Beka sobered instantly. She straddled one of the stools and placed her elbows and coffee mug on the table. “Did you find them?”

Rommie sighed. “Did you know that there are currently forty-three registered Drago-Kazov slaves that go by the name of Seamus? And twenty-seven Seamus’s in Dragan prisons. Who knew it was such a popular name?”

“What about the name Harper?”

Rommie shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Dylan?”

“I found no record of a Dylan Hunt in any Dragan prison, but,” she shrugged, “most of their top-security political prisons don’t list the names of prisoners.”

Beka’s shoulders sagged. “So, basically, that was a waste of time and good lip-gloss.”

“Not necessarily,” Rommie countered. She brought out the flexi with Harper’s list on it. “Claiming the top five slots on Harper’s list are Earth, Sommer’s Drift, a prison planet known as Cooper, some planet I’ve never heard of called Rellim, and the infamous prison slash torture facility known as Hades.”

“Charming name,” Beka muttered.

“Isn’t it,” Rommie agreed. “Now, we’re relatively certain they aren’t on Sommer’s,” Rommie crossed one name off, “and Felix doesn’t seem like the kind to send his most important prisoners to an unknown, washed-out dump, so Rellim is probably not the best place to start looking, either.” She crossed off a second name.

“What about Earth?” Beka spoke with apprehension. She hated to think of Harper being stuck back there, right smack in the middle of all his worst nightmares.

“Well, I haven’t ruled Earth out. If Harper is a slave again, as you seem to suspect, then Felix sending him back to Earth wouldn’t be completely out of the question, but there are no political prisons on Earth, just the filthy dungeons the Dragans built to control their unruly slaves. I don’t think Dylan would be there. Since we hardly have the resources to split our search, I suggest we operate for the time on the assumption Felix has kept them together and cross that other bridge later if we have to. Besides, if Harper is on Earth, he probably has a better chance of freeing himself than we have of getting in, which is another reason I think Felix would avoid that plan. You don’t send an important prisoner to his old stomping grounds; that’s just asking for trouble.”

Beka nodded. “Okay, so that leaves Copper and Hades. Did you find out anything about them?”

“Both have had prisoners transferred there within the last two weeks…”

“Why does that not sound like a positive statement when you say it?” Beka asked.

“Because so have fourteen other prisons or Dragan strongholds on Harper’s list,” Rommie conceded. “Records did indicate that Hades received exactly two prisoners, both placed in cells with the highest security,” she added, “but no names were listed and they were not sent under Commander Felix’s orders.”

Beka heaved a sigh and ran a hand through her damp hair in frustration. “A cosmically big haystack and we’re looking for two little needles.” She fell silent, studying the depths of her coffee as she tried to sort out her thoughts. Eventually, she raised her head. “Is there any way to track the path of Felix’s ship?”

“I’ve already tried. I can extrapolate a rough route based on known dockings in the last three weeks, but the margin of error is quite wide since we don’t have a record of all the places he stopped and at least ninety-eight of the planets and places on Harper’s list fall within the resulting range…”

Beka sighed again. This just got better and better. Finally, she spoke. “All right, here’s what we’ll do. We’ll take the bait and hit Hades first, but this screams trap to me, or at least decoy, so I think we should be extra cautious. If we don’t find them there, we work down Harper’s list hitting all the prisons that you said have received convicts recently. After that, I honestly have no idea, but I’ll think of something. They’re out there, I know they are, we just have to find them. And if I know either of them, they’re trying their hardest to make our job easier. If there’s any way for them to send out a red flag, they’ll jump at it, so keep your eyes…er sensors open, even for smoke signals.”

“I’ve been performing five extra scans a day, on all frequencies in use and most that aren’t, since the moment we realized they were missing,” Rommie admitted with a slight blush.

“Good, keep it up. Now, as much as I hate to do it, I’ve got to crash for a few hours before I try slipstream again. Try and think of a plan for breaking into Hades that doesn’t involve us getting either killed or captured, ‘cause I don’t think the guards there will fall for the scam we just pulled, and I don’t think my lips could take it even if they would.”

“Harper says you like dangerous men,” Rommie said with a small smile. She ducked the other fuzzy slipper.

“Harper also says you sing Sinatra in the shower…”

“Harper talks too much,” Rommie said firmly, folding her arms. 

“Agreed. So, anyway, wake me in three hours and try not to let anyone shoot at my ship while I’m asleep?”

“Can I shoot at them?”

“Rommie, I know you’re a warship, but we have got to find better ways for you to deal with boredom. Try watering Trance’s plants or something.” She shook her head and hands in frustration and went into the crew quarters. With a tired sigh, she threw herself down on the bunk below Harper’s and closed her eyes.

“Hello haystack, here we come…”

*****

Harper limped heavily from the mines with the rest of the slaves, his eyes pinched shut and his face wrinkled up in pain. Unable to go any farther, he broke out of the throng and hobbled wearily to a rock at the mouth of the cave and sank onto it to wait for Dylan. 

He didn’t have to wait long.

“Harper?” he heard Dylan call, the worry at not finding his engineer in their usual meeting place evident in his voice.

“Over here, Dylan,” Harper called out quietly. A few seconds later he felt the other man by his side.

Harper’s face was tight with pain and even paler than usual, and he was cradling his right foot in his good hand. Dylan took all this in as he stepped over to his friend and his worry skyrocketed.

“What’s wrong, Harper?”

“Stepped on something sharp a couple hours before the second break,” Harper admitted, knowing there was no way he could hide this. “Think it cut my foot up pretty good.”

“Let me see,” Dylan ordered, taking the limb gently in his hands and turning it so he could see the bottom. A nasty, ragged gash ran across the already abused sole, easily cutting through the few rags that remained wrapped around the poor foot. It still oozed blood and the skin around it was already red and inflamed. 

Dylan closed his eyes against the panic rising inside him at the sight. There was no way Harper would get medical treatment for this or even a day’s work reprieve, and it was impossible to keep the wound clean and free of infection in this death camp, especially considering the boy didn’t even have any shoes. He did thank his lucky stars that the instant Beka and her crew had agreed to sign on with him, Rommie had marched them down to med-deck and pumped them full of every vaccination she had on board, especially Harper. If she hadn’t, Harper would have been dead weeks ago of tetanus, or typhoid, or diphtheria, or another of the thousands of germs swimming around this camp. But those shots wouldn’t protect him from random strands of bacteria, or those diseases that had no vaccination. Something as simple as this cut could kill the boy.

Taking a deep breath, Dylan opened his eyes and tried to school his voice to be calm and normal.

“Yeah, that’s a pretty nasty cut but it’s mostly stopped bleeding. Here, lean on me and let me help you over to roll-call. Afterward, I’ll see if I can scrounge up something to wrap it with.”

Harper nodded and got slowly to his feet, Dylan holding his right arm for support. Slowly, they made their way over for evening roll-call, Dylan’s heart heavy with dread. 

It hit him as he stood there that evening, stealing glances at Harper’s pained face while they waited for the Nietzscheans to finish inspecting their property; Harper was dying. Not today, not tomorrow, probably not even next week, but that didn’t matter. Despite his casual words and flippant jokes, Harper’s body was giving up, shutting down, throwing in the towel. It might be weeks, it might even be months, but Harper would die and Dylan was powerless to stop it.

He breathed deeply to quell the panic that again threatened to rise. This was too big for him, too much for him to handle on his own! He couldn’t get them out, not without help. For the first time in a very, very long time, Dylan bowed his head and closed his eyes. And then he sent up a silent prayer to a deity he wasn’t even sure he believed in anymore. 

_Help me please!_


	37. Chapter 36

**Chapter 36**

_Necessity is the plea for every infringement of human freedom. It is the argument of tyrants; it is the creed of slaves._

\- William Pitt

*****

“Hey, Boss?”

Harper’s quiet voice drew Dylan’s attention to his friend. It had been a hard, slow day in the mines, worse than usual. Their barrack had joined Harper on cart duty today, and Dylan had shared the cart with him. With the engineer limping horribly from his re-injured foot, Dylan had to take most of the weight and they were both exhausted now. Too tired for much conversation, they were just leaning wearily against the wall as they rested on their pile of straw, so it startled him when Harper spoke.

“Yes, Harper?”

“I was just wondering,” the boy said softly, turning his head in the direction of Dylan’s voice, “do you still have it?”

“Have what?” Dylan asked, his expression puzzled.

“You know, my rabbit’s foot.”

“Oh. Of course I do. It’s right here,” Dylan patted his chest out of habit even though Harper couldn’t see it, “around my neck.”

“Could I…” Harper’s voice was small and hesitant, almost embarrassed. “Could I see it for a bit? I mean, touch it?”

“Harper, I’m only keeping it for you; it’s still yours. All you have to do is ask.” Dylan quickly pulled the cord over his head and carefully placed the furry item in Harper’s outstretched hand. As soon as it touched his skin, Harper’s hand closed around it and his fingers instinctively started to rub it. With a sigh, he let his head fall back against the wall and his eyes close.

The captain continued to watch his friend for a while, trying to picture a young man with wild, spiky hair and loud clothes instead of the dirty, drab figure that sat beside him and tried to hide his bald head under his cap night and day. It was getting harder and harder to bring up that old image, he noted sadly.

“I know you probably think I’m nuts,” Harper spoke suddenly, gesturing with the hand caressing his lucky charm, “but it helps me think and is kinda, you know, _comforting_. This rabbit’s foot has been with me through a lot of rotten stuff. Besides, even if the whole rest of my life is horribly different now, it still feels the same despite the fact that I’m blind and a slave. Like touching a tiny bit of home,” he explained, ducking his head a little.

“No, I don’t think you’re nuts, Mr. Harper,” Dylan said earnestly. “Actually, it makes perfect sense.” He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “You’re not the only one to ever draw comfort from little things. When I was a cadet, we had to wear these uniforms. They were similar to the High Guard uniform I used to wear when I first met you, but less dressy and more practical. Anyway, the cuffs on the sleeves were fastened with buttons bearing the High Guard Crest. You could feel the emblem with your fingers without even looking. It wasn’t until I graduated and got my first real uniform that I realized I’d developed the habit of rubbing those buttons when I was thinking or stressed.” He stopped again, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I’ve always kinda missed those buttons,” he said sheepishly.

“You could rub your chains and pretend they’re buttons,” Harper suggested, straight-faced. “I mean, I assume they’re smooth and shiny, just like your buttons…”

“Somehow it’s just not the same…” Dylan laughed tiredly.

“No, I guess not,” Harper agreed. After a few more moments, he reluctantly held out his treasure for Dylan to take it back. Wordlessly, the captain replaced it around his neck and hid it under his filthy shirt. He wished Harper could keep it himself since it was so important to him and touching it somehow seemed to give him renewed resolve to go on, but he’d seen how the young engineer was treated by their Nietzschean guards. He knew it would never stay hidden on the kid, just as Harper had told him back on Felix’s ship. For once he truly wished his friend had been wrong about something.

“All right—” 

Harper’s voice broke into his thoughts once more and he looked up to see that the engineer had shifted around so he was facing the older man.

“Dylan, I want you to level with me here. Are you all right, Boss? How’re you holding up for real?” And don’t skirt the issue or outright lie because I’m blind and you can get away with it. That’s not fair. Besides, I can hear how tired you sound when you talk and how much slower you move now, and your arm is a lot skinnier when I hold on than it used to be.”

Surprised by the sudden change of topic and the seriousness of the questions, Dylan didn’t answer right away. Finally, he just shook his head and said, “I’m fine.”

“Liar. Seriously, Boss, cut the crap. I know you’re not fine. You’re working fourteen hours a day on a diet that wouldn’t be enough for a seven year-old, let alone a big guy like you! Because of me, the Ubers have it in for you, and you’re surrounded by filth and disease. Me, I’m used to this, but you’re not. I’m worried about you, okay! Contrary to what everyone thinks it’s not the little guys who come off worst in places like this, it’s the big dudes. You could be wasting away and dying on me and I’d never know and you’re too darn stubborn to tell me!”

Dylan had to admit he was not in top form at the moment, not even close. He ached all the time, and the lack of food made him dizzy and light-headed, but he wasn’t as bad as Harper was thinking. “Harper,” he hurried to assure his friend, “I’m okay.” Harper started to protest but Dylan cut him off. “No, really. Just listen to me. I’m hungry and tired and sore and filthy. Places hurt that I never even knew I had and I’ve gotten more familiar with the wrong end of a whip then I ever wanted to. I’ve got rashes and lice and fleas, but I’m still walking. You’re right about these places getting to the big and strong and healthy first, but I have something most of them don’t; I’m half heavy-gravity worlder, remember? That gives me a huge leg up in the survival odds.”

“But it doesn’t make you immune or invulnerable!” Harper stressed. “And your body isn’t used to this!”

“I also have gene modifications, Harper, and nanobots to help combat infections and diseases. Nothing up to Niet standards; I’m still human, but enough to help. Honestly, I’m miserable just like you, but I’m doing okay. You don’t have to worry.”

“Someone’s got to worry about you. You’re too busy worrying about the rest of the universe to give a darn worrying about yourself and I’m too tired to bail your sorry butt out any more than I have to,” Harper muttered.

Once again, Dylan was surprised by the engineer’s words. He knew that beneath the flippant tone was real worry. He often forgot just how deeply Harper protected his friends. “Harper, I’ll make you a deal. I promise you that if there ever is something seriously wrong with me, I’ll tell you and not take advantage of your blindness to hide it from you, but in return you have to promise to stop worrying about me. You have more important things to concentrate on like keeping yourself healthy.”

“Well, I can’t promise to stop totally, since I _am_ the only expert on slavery that you have, but I promise I’ll try,” Harper agreed.

“Good enough for me,” Dylan said, clapping him gently on the shoulder. “Now, let’s both get some rest. We need it.”

*****

The shrill blasting of the whistle jerked Dylan awake, and he sat up quickly as the bars of their prison were flung open.

“Get up, dogs!” a Nietzschean guard they’d never met before yelled, stepping inside and cracking his whip at the dazed, blinking figures who were starting to scramble clumsily from bunks and up off the ground. “Move you worthless slaves!”

“Didn’t we just go to sleep?” Harper muttered groggily as he tried to stand up without getting tangled in his heavy chains. Unfortunately, the guard heard him and whirled around, bringing his whip down harshly on the boy’s ravaged back. Harper gasped at the sudden, unexpected pain and fell back to his knees.

“You wish to question your masters, mule?” the guard sneered, striking Harper again while Dylan watched helplessly knowing anything he did to interfere would simply cause the boy more pain.

Teeth gritted, Harper shook his head quickly.

“Wise answer, little slave,” the Niet favored Harper with several more quick blows to make sure the lesson was driven home then returned to his task.

“Up you lazy, filthy beasts! Out in the commons for roll-call!” Whip cracking at their heels, the weary slaves began shuffling from their barrack.

“Are you all right?” Dylan whispered under his breath as he helped Harper to his feet and they joined their fellow prisoners, Harper limping strongly.

Harper nodded, but Dylan could see his teeth were still clenched in pain, from both his back and his foot.

“Note to self,” he muttered after a moment, “shut up around Ubers.”

The common area in the center of the camp was eerie and freakish at this hour. Torches flickered red against the black of darkest night, casting grotesque shadows off the scattered instruments of torture and pain that decorated the place. Nietzschean guards lined the square and a bonfire had been kindled, throwing fiery tongues of flame up into the sky like devils dancing.

Silently, the slaves took their places facing the flames, Dylan not even daring to offer descriptions to his friend. There was something about this silent, strange ritual that set his nerves on edge. They’d never been roused from sleep and dragged out in the middle of the night before. Nothing good could be on the agenda.

Holding up his heavy, cumbersome chains, Harper let Dylan lead him to their spots in the queue of slaves. His re-injured foot throbbed terribly, but he ignored it. He could hear the hiss of a fire crackling and smell the smoke; even without his sight he could tell this was bad. Something told him the Ubers weren’t about to invite them to roast s’mores. Dylan squeezed his arm lightly to let him know he was in place and then he was alone, adrift in his now familiar sea of blackness with only the feel of the ground beneath his bare feet to anchor him and his ears and nose to tell him what was going on. He might be getting used to it but that didn’t make standing there any less frightening; he hated it with every fiber of his being.

Dylan took his own place in line, chains clanking loudly in the solemn stillness that surrounded them. Everywhere slaves were gazing around as they filed in, fear and terror reflected in their eyes. Soon movement ceased and they waited.

And waited.

They stood in silent rows, still as frozen statues, gazing at the blood, red fire and hearts filling up with building dread. Finally, a good ten minutes later, Adoniram stepped into the flickering light.

“Slaves,” he spoke loudly, but his voice was perfectly calm and controlled even as it echoed in the deadness of night. “You are lucky. You Kludges, you creatures who are little better than dumb animals should have been left to starve and die in misery. Instead your betters took pity on you. The Drago-Kazov have cared for you, clothed you, fed you, given you work and purpose. You should hold us in honor and gratitude.” He paused for a moment, looking around slowly. Then suddenly he shattered the silence. “Instead we get insolence, mockery, contempt!” he roared. He gestured to two of his guards. They came forward dragging the cowed and terrified figure of a slave between them, his hands bound tightly in front of him with cords.

“This slave, after all the kindness and mercy that has been shown him, chose to repay it with ingratitude! He stole from us! Stole from all of you, an extra piece of bread! His greed must be punished and you will witness it!”

“No, please!” the poor man cried, falling to his knees before Adoniram and raising his bound hands in supplication. “Please! I’m sorry! I was just so hungry! I won’t do it again! Please!”

“Silence!” Adoniram bellowed striking the slave across the face with a force that threw the gaunt figure to the ground. Dylan noticed Harper flinch at the sound of the blow and he clenched his teeth in frustration. Oh how he longed to break in there and stop this injustice! It tortured him more than physical pain to be helpless. If it had only been him stuck here he would have done something rash long ago, but it wasn’t; he had Harper to protect and that held him back, but it got harder every day.

The slave was sobbing on the ground at Adoniram’s feet now, still muttering anguished pleas for mercy. Adoniram ignored him.

“Bring it,” the Nietzschean ordered. Two of his men stepped forward into the sinister light. They carried what looked like a bench with stocks at one end. They set it firmly on the ground facing the large fire. It rested about a foot and a half off the ground.

“Secure him,” Adoniram continued coldly. The guards pulled the hysterical slave over to the bench and threw him on it on his back. One pulled the man’s bound hands roughly over his head and lashed them to the plank. The other lifted a board and placed his struggling feet into the holes of the stocks then lowered the board and secured it. The poor slave was helpless, fixed to the board, his feet jutting out over the end. His struggles died out, the little energy he had spent.

“This is my camp and I will maintain order!” Adoniram continued to address the terrified rows of prisoners while his guards removed the victim’s shoes. “You’re my slaves, beasts of burden. Like other beasts you must be driven and pushed; pain the only motivation you understand. Very well, I give you only what you deserve!” He turned to his men, “Proceed.”

The first guard pulled a can from his vest. Opening it, he liberally smeared the contents on the prisoner’s bare feet. The second guard turned to the raging fire.

With horrible clarity, Dylan realized what was going to happen. Sickened, he watched the Niet pull several flaming logs from the fire and move them directly under the poor man’s immobile, well-greased feet.

It was slow, torturously slow, but soon the man’s anguished cries filled the night air as the heat from the fire melted the oil and slowly roasted his feet.

The whole thing was horrible. The dark shadows, the light from the glowing fire and torches all around, the dead silence broken by piercing yells. It was like a scene from a holo-drama, an ancient pagan ritual to long vanished, vengeful gods. But this was no fictional tale to be turned off at one’s leisure. As he watched the poor man writhe and suffer, Dylan almost envied Harper’s lack of sight. He closed his eyes and lowered his head, but it didn’t help. Nothing could block out the raw, tortured screams of pure agony or the putrid, heavy scent of burning flesh.

*****

“Near as I can tell, I’ve been here about four years.”

Harper rested his back gingerly against the barrack wall and closed his eyes, listening to the voices all around him and trying to block out the horrible memory of the night before. Tonight, Dakin, Ethan, Peter, and Simon had joined Twig at his and Dylan’s pile of straw, and Dylan took the opportunity to get to know them better. That was just fine with Harper. His foot was swollen and throbbed mercilessly, and he could feel a small fever was burning through his body as firry tongues of infection crept up his leg from the wound. He was perfectly content to just listen to the voices of his friends tonight without having to contribute to the conversation.

There was movement on his right side and then the tiny form of Twig slid back into the corner and leaned against him. Harper smiled slightly; it was almost like having his very own puppy. Or, he thought with a little more alarm, his own kid. The boy was starved for attention and while he’d adopted both Dylan and Harper as his surrogate family, he seemed to latch hardest onto the small engineer. Harper didn’t mind the attention but it did sort of scare him. He was in no way fit to be someone’s role model, even in the good old days back on the _Andromeda_. Still, he did his best and it was nice to have the distraction from his constant pain and the all-encompassing darkness. As the boy snuggled closer to his side, Harper wished he could put his arm around the kid’s shoulders but his stupid chains prevented that. He contented himself with patting Twig awkwardly on the knee and sending a tired smile in what he hoped was his general direction.

“How’d you end up here?” he heard Dylan continue, speaking to Ethan.

“The same way any of us ended up here, Nietzschean tyranny.” He paused for a moment and then went on. “I was born and raised in Montana. It’s always been mighty empty up there, even before the fall, and after occupation it cleared out even more. It was a harsh place to live, the weather could be brutal and the pollution and contamination made it hard to coax anything to grow, but it also had its advantages. For the most part, the Magog left us alone; ain’t enough of us to bother with, and the Niets had better places to live and bigger populations of Kludges to control.”

 _Like Boston_ , Harper thought bitterly.

“So what happened?” Dylan urged.

“Ubers came around on their annual patrol to collect most of our produce for the year and they noticed that for some odd reason we weren’t as sickly or as scrawny as other Earth humans. Decided we’d make excellent slaves. They ordered us to turn over all of our youngin’s between the ages of ten and eighteen to be properly trained and brought up as slaves.”

Harper could hear the deep anger and sorrow in Ethan’s voice as he spoke and he could empathize. Unlike Dylan, he knew stories like this one all too well.

“I had a family; Molly an’ me’d been sweethearts since we was kids. Married her when we both turned seventeen. Had nine kids, five of them lived. When the Niets came demanding our kids, three of our five were over ten. They gave us two days to have them ready. Well, Molly and me and several other couples decided we weren’t gonna turn over our families to the Ubers and condemn our kids to a life of slavery. We sent our kids to special hiding spots our families had kept for generations and our wives went to guard them, then we men waited for the Ubers to come. Of course it was never a fair fight. There were nine of us and a whole garrison of them. Six of my neighbors were killed and the three of us who lived were sent here for resisting Nietzschean authority and high treason. I’m the only one left now.” He sighed deeply. “I just hope Molly and the kids made it through safely and she’s moved them to a new place, maybe farther north. I miss ‘em, ya know? My oldest, Janey’d be about nineteen now and the baby, Wyatt, about the same age as Twig there. Wonder if they remember me…”

“I’m sure they’re very proud of you and what you did for them,” Dylan offered confidently.

 _Sure, if they’re even still alive, which on Earth is pretty doubtful_ , Harper couldn’t help thinking. Few families on Earth survived more than a couple years intact; it was just a sad fact of life.

There was a moment of harsh coughing from Harper’s left side and then Simon spoke. “They and you will be blessed by the Divine for your sacrifice, no doubt,” he said, his voice strained and weaker than usual Harper noted.

“If the Divine wants to bless me, why don’t ‘e bless me right out of this ‘eck ‘ole?” Peter spoke up. “That’d be a blessing worth ‘aving!”

A small laugh traveled around the group.

“What about you?” Dylan asked when it died off, and Harper assumed the question was directed at Peter.

“Same kinda stuff,” Peter said matter-of-factly. “I ‘ail from London. Grew up living ‘and to mouth, like any other mudfoot. Got my kicks from tickin’ off the Ubers. Settled down in a nice, cozy cellar with my girl an’ our two kids. Then a cholera epidemic came through about six years back. Took Tess and the youngest, so it was just me and Davie left. I didn’t know much about raising a kid alone so we moved in with my sister Ellen and ‘er ‘usband Derek and their kids. He got me involved in this resistance group called the London Underground. Then, about a year ago, we got a transmission from some blokes in America. Our mates at Bunker ‘ill were staging an all-out rebellion. Naturally, we wanted in. Too bad it didn’t turn out how we wanted. Most of my mates and Derek were killed and I ended up ‘ere. End of story. I just ‘ope Ellen kept Davie out of it.”

Harper felt a huge shiver of guilt run up his spine as Peter told his story, and he clenched his good hand. He hated to think about that transmission he’d been part of. He never forgot the millions of people who’d died or, as Peter, been imprisoned because of his words. It only piled on top of the grief he already felt about Brendan and weighed heavily on his mind, adding to his already plentiful crop of nightmares.

Without his sight he had no way of knowing how Dylan took this news, but he hoped the captain realized they were pretty much responsible for Peter being stuck in this camp. Hopefully, that whole incident gave the good captain at least a few nightmares of his own, but he doubted it.

Harper wondered if Peter recognized him as the one from the recording. He had changed so much in the last few months he wouldn’t be surprised if Peter hadn’t. Still, he wasn’t gonna bring it up to find out.

“I’m sorry,” he heard Dylan say softly.

“Don’t be. I’m a Kludge, it’s what happens,” Peter answered as if that explained everything. For Harper it did, but he figured his captain still wasn’t ready to accept that. At least Dylan didn’t press the issue right now. Still feeling horribly guilty, Harper forced himself to relax and his stiff hand to unclench. It hurt bad enough as it was; he didn’t need to add to it. The conversation moved on, Dylan asking Dakin for his story next.

“There is not much to tell,” the young man said in his quiet voice. “The slavers came to my village in the fall. Autumn is the season of their annual gathering and every few years or so they visit each village to take slaves. I was of age and healthy; I had no choice. Now my sisters will help Father with the crops.”

Harper was only half listening to the voices now. Simon, because of his hacking cough, offered very little about himself that they didn’t already know. Twig had nothing to tell and so he just sat beside the engineer, listening and enjoying a moment of feeling safe and wanted. After a while, Harper felt Twig’s small hand slip into his own, the boy’s fingers softly tracing the ugly scar in his palm. It felt weird to Harper who wasn’t used to being touched, but he didn’t think Twig even realized he was doing it so he didn’t have the heart to tell him to stop. Instead he listed half-heartedly while Dylan shared an adventure from his glory days on the _Andromeda_ before the fall and tried to ignore his rising fever.

“Harper?”

Twig’s voice caught him by surprise.

“What happened to your hands?”

“Um…” Harper stammered, caught off-guard.

“Yeah, what ‘appened to you?” Peter asked, picking up on Twig’s question. “You know all about us now, but you still ‘aven’t told us what ‘appened to you.”

“I made Felix mad,” Harper said evasively, hoping to avoid the topic.

“Yeah, we figured that out from the collar and the chains,” Ethan said with friendly sarcasm. “But like the boy asked, what’s wrong with your hands?”

Harper sighed deeply. “I was crucified, okay.” He couldn’t stop the bitterness and pain from creeping into his voice.

Complete silence followed his words until finally Dakin broke it. “Then you should be dead.”

Harper didn’t bother to mention that technically he had been, for a few minutes. “Near the end of it, Felix decided I was too annoying to get the easy way out,” he explained. “Pulled me down, blinded me, and sent me here instead. Didn’t bother patching my hands up, however, or anything else for that matter,” Harper grumbled.

“’ow’d you two get caught, anyway?” Peter asked.

Harper sucked in a deep breath and let his head fall back against the wall again. “You tell them, Dylan. I’m totally wiped and gonna go to sleep now.” The engineer really didn’t want to go over all that again. He was tired and sore and it took more energy than he would have ever guessed to keep up with a conversation in a group of people he couldn’t see. Besides, Dylan had initiated this little spill your guts session; he could give them all the juicy details.

“Harper?” Twig said quietly from next to him while Dylan launched into the _Reader’s Digest_ version of how they ended up in this pit, “What’s crucified?”

“Something you don’t need to know about, okay,” Harper said firmly. “Now I’m gonna sleep now, but maybe tomorrow we can have more Jack and the Beanstalk.” That said, he curled up right where he was on his side, his back against the barrack wall, and closed his eyes. Sleep claimed him before Dylan even got to the really gory parts of the story.

*****

The next evening after eating their pitiful dinner and rinsing their dishes, Dylan led Harper slowly back to their barrack, Twig walking beside them. Harper’s limp was worse than ever, and Dylan could feel the fever in his skin. He was worried, very worried. 

“Hunt!”

Both Harper and Dylan stopped in surprise and Dylan looked quickly around. It had been months since anyone used that name.

“Hunt, come here. I want to talk to you.”

It was Marcus, their guard. He was standing in the shadows of a nearby barrack, waiting for him. Dylan didn’t know what to think. Nietzscheans around here, if they wanted to address a prisoner as anything other than _slave_ always used their numbers.

“Is that who I think it is?” Harper asked quietly, his voice filled with surprise and suspicion.

“Yeah,” Dylan said quietly. “I’d better go. Twig, can you get Harper back to the barrack?”

The boy nodded solemnly and held out his arm for Harper to grasp. “Be careful,” Harper warned as he took Twig’s arm and limped painfully off.

Wary, Dylan approached the young Niet. “Yes, Master?” he asked, purposefully keeping his head slightly bowed. Oh how his enemies would laugh to see how quickly the great Dylan Hunt learned how to be a slave.

Marcus studied him for a long time, his expression unreadable. “Are you really Dylan Hunt, from the _Andromeda_?” he finally asked. His voice was schooled to give nothing away, but Dylan still thought he caught a bit of honest curiosity.

“Yes,” he answered studying the Niet himself this time. For a moment, they just stood there, eyeing each other. Then the guard spoke again.

“Here, take this,” he said, thrusting something into the startled captain’s hands. Dylan looked down to find a thick pair of socks, all rolled up.

“Why?” he blurted, forgetting to be a submissive slave.

“For the small one, Harper, who’s hurt. The one the others love to torment.”

“I don’t understand,” Dylan said, shaking his head. “Why do you care?”

“Faulty objects are worthless. When one’s property is damaged it should be repaired,” he said coolly.

Dylan just gaped at him for a long time. Then he turned the gift over in his hands, not sure what to do. Harper needed them desperately, but what would be the price? Would the cost of such a gift from their tormentors be exacted from the young man later?

“Thank you,” he finally replied, hoping the gift was only what it seemed.

“Return to your barrack,” Marcus replied curtly. “Curfew will sound soon.” Then he walked off, never looking back.

Harper was waiting for him on their bed when he entered the prison.

“Where’s Twig?” Dylan asked.

“I sent him to check on Simon. He’s not feeling very great tonight,” Harper explained in a rush. “What about you? What happened? Are you okay?”

“Whoa! Slow down, Harper. I’m perfectly fine.”

As he spoke, he unrolled the thick socks and discovered a second surprise. Hidden within was a roll of bandages, a paper wrapper filled with the same fluorescent goop Adoniram had sprayed on Harper’s feet before, and two clear pills.

“So, what happened? What did the Uber want?” Harper asked impatiently.

“I honestly don’t know what he wanted, but right now who cares. The point is, your day just got a little better.”

“Huh?”

“Here, feel this,” Dylan said with a genuine smile as he placed the socks in the engineer’s hands. Puzzled, Harper let his fingers explore them. After a minute, his face lit up with understanding.

“Socks?” he asked, shocked.

“Yep.”

“For me?” he was incredulous. “He gave you socks for me?”

“And medicine and bandages, too,” Dylan added.

Harper’s expression darkened. “What do you hafta do for him in return?”

“Look, he just called me over and gave them to me and told me to give them to you. He didn’t demand anything in return.”

“Yet…” Harper warned.

“Well, there’s no point worrying about that now. You need the socks. They aren’t quite shoes and they won’t last long, but take them while you can. Any strings they come attached to we’ll worry about later. Besides, there’s something different about Marcus. Maybe he’s a decent guy.”

“Boss, he’s an Uber.”

“So is Tyr,” Dylan countered. Then he placed the two pills in Harper’s hand, hoping against hope they really were the antibiotics he thought they were. “Now swallow those while I fix up your feet.


	38. Chapter 37

**Chapter 37**

_Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,  
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.  
All the King’s horses and all the King’s men,  
Couldn’t put Humpty together again._

\- Nursery Rhyme

*****

Summer on Rellim reached its peak and turned over, starting to slide down toward autumn. The days grew shorter. The slaves had always started their days in darkness but now they emerged from the mines to find twilight already approaching as well. The temperatures during the day stayed hot and high, but most of the slaves spent their daylight hours deep underground where it was always cold and damp so this mattered little. At night, however, the warmth of high summer began to fade and give way. The air cooled and chill breezes crept in. Sleeping on their filthy straw next to the open doorway, Dylan and Harper found it harder to keep warm at night, their blankets hardly up to the task. Both tried not to think about what it would be like when winter hit…

In the meantime, the antibiotics did their job; Harper’s fever disappeared. Deciding Harper’s feet needed all the help they could get, Dylan had wrapped not just the injured one but both feet tightly in the bandages, then pulled the thick socks on over top. For the first time since his boots had been taken away on Felix’s ship, Harper’s feet were protected somewhat from the filth and the grime of the camp as well as the sharpness of the ground, and they finally began to really heal. The engineer lost most of the hobble he’d walked with constantly for the last several months as the cuts and bruises and scrapes closed and mended.

Mindful that his lovely socks wouldn’t last forever without shoes, Harper took to rotating them around. Every day he turned them about two inches to the left. It felt pretty funny but spread the wear and tear around and hopefully extended the life of his gift.

And a gift it really was, apparently, as time passed and Marcus never demanded any form of payment. Neither Dylan nor Harper knew what to think of that, but as there was nothing they could do, they pushed it to the backs of their minds.

While Harper’s feet healed, Simon, however, got a little worse each day. He tried to pretend he was just fine but even Harper with his blind eyes could tell the man was losing. No one said it out loud, but they all knew it was only a matter of time…

*****

Dylan walked slowly, his head bowed slightly and his eyes cast down. He did his best to look nonchalant, like he was simply taking the long way to the latrines or trying to kill time by wandering their prison. Still, he was careful to keep his chains still; the sound of clanking chains always grabbed the Nietzscheans’ attention no matter what he was doing. It was as bad as having a darn cattle bell hanging around his neck with those things jangling with his every move.

He reached the back of the camp and leaned against the barrack there, feigning weariness. The truth was he didn’t have to pretend very hard; these days he usually was tired to the bone. As he rested there, pretending to catch his breath, he gazed subtlety around. Several days ago he’d noticed that the wires near the back gate in the fence seemed looser than usual, like something big had bumped into them and they hadn’t been fixed quite right. It wasn’t much, but any little thing that could give them an edge in escaping this place was worth checking out. Besides, he was tired of being a Niet slave! He’d spent too much time adjusting and not enough time doing something about their situation. He was not a man who’d ever found it easy to sit by and accept fate, so he’d taken to wandering the camp lately, in the evenings after their supper. Knowing it would not only draw attention but also further tire the engineer out, he’d left Harper to tell his stories to Twig, trusting the little boy to keep the young man out of trouble. But he couldn’t sit and do nothing anymore. If they were ever going to get out of here, it was up to him. Harper had wracked his brilliant brain trying to come up with a solution but in the end even his formidable brain cells couldn’t make up for the fact that he simply couldn’t see. There were too many variables to the equation that he didn’t have and too many unknowns he couldn’t account for. Escape was in the captain’s hands for now.

Carefully, Dylan studied the camp. It was almost dark now, but curfew was still at least half an hour away. Guards roamed the area and patrolled the perimeter but they were few and bored looking, counting the minutes until they could lock the slaves safely in their prisons for the night and retreat to their own warm rooms and hot coffee. 

Dylan looked back at the fence. Climbing would be a problem. Not only was Harper hardly in any shape to climb over one barbed-wire fence let alone three, but they were both weighed down with cumbersome chains that were loud and awkward. That’s why he’d always dismissed this plan before, but here, for the first time, the wires looked loose enough that perhaps they could go under instead of over. If they were quick enough, quiet enough, and timed it just right, maybe, _just maybe_ they could get out.

But should they try?

If they were caught he had no doubt the consequences would be horrific. Felix seemed to have given orders that they be kept alive for now, but that didn’t mean much. Harper with his crippled hands and broken eyes was proof enough that there were things worse than death. If they were caught trying to escape, Dylan knew they would suffer terribly and probably never have another chance to run. Should they risk it? Or should they wait for a better opportunity? Would there ever _be_ a better one? Surely Beka and the others were looking for them, but he knew they would have found them long ago if they could. Waiting for a rescue would most likely mean waiting forever, and Harper didn’t have that long. Truthfully, Dylan admitted he probably didn’t either.

And there were other issues to consider, too. What if they did decide to risk it? What about the others? The men who’d helped them, become their friends? Did they just leave them behind to their fates? And what about Twig? The others would probably understand and urge them to go if they could, but Twig wouldn’t. He’d feel abandoned and betrayed. Could he just leave the boy behind, to live the rest of his short life as a slave? He didn’t want to and he could guess Harper wouldn’t either, but he also didn’t know if he could get them both out. It would be hard enough with a blind friend but to have a little kid along as well…

Dylan blew out the breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding and put his head in his hands. There was just too much to think about. The odds were so slim, the risks so great, the responsibility completely on his shoulders and he was already so tired just trying to survive from day to day. He was too exhausted to think about it more tonight, though. He knew he’d have to make a decision soon, but he needed to rest. He’d think more on it tomorrow.

Sighing quietly, he pushed himself away from the wall and began to slowly make his way back to his own barrack, his mind and heart heavy and worried.

*****

“So anyway, once he got rid of the giant Uber, Jack became pretty famous. Folks all over started asking him to come to their parties or give speeches at their shin-digs. He made enough money to buy his mom a nice, new cottage, with a white picket fence and pretty flowers planted all around it. It was in a good neighborhood, too, where there were no Ubers…”

Harper paused for breath as he started the next installment of the on-going saga of Jack and the Beanstalk. He didn’t need eyes to know Twig was hanging on his every word. The boy was practically sitting on him, arms wrapped tightly around his spindly little legs, breathing excitedly. A stray thought crossed Harper’s mind and he wished he knew what the kid looked like. Did he have blue eyes or brown? Freckles? Was he pale or dark? Out of curiosity he’d asked Twig what he looked like once. There’d been a moment of confused silence and then the boy had replied “dirty.” And that was that. Apparently Twig had never even seen his own reflection. Maybe Harper could get Dylan to describe him later, if the captain felt like talking.

“What happened next, Harper?” Twig urged when he waited too long before speaking again.

“Well, after a while, Jack began to get bored,” Harper answered distractedly. 

They were alone tonight, the others playing cards or resting, and Dylan had gone off walking again. Harper knew the captain was troubled and worried but didn’t know how to help him. He had felt the older man withdrawing lately. He no longer joined in the stories at night as often, and he spent much more time alone. Harper hoped he wasn’t losing him, but it wouldn’t be the first time slavery had driven a strong man over the edge. He was worried and didn’t know what to do.

“Harper?” Twig’s hands tugged on his sleeve. “Keep going, please!”

“Sorry, Twig,” Harper said with an apologetic smile. “Sometimes my brain just runs away for a minute. Where were we?”

“You said Jack got bored.”

“Right. Jack was bored,” Harper said, shifting to try and get a little more comfortable on the straw, not that he even remembered what comfort was. “So, Jack decided he needed a new adventure one day. Came home, told his mom, and packed up his stuff. He decided it was time to go off and see the world. Of course, his mom was not very happy about that, but Jack was stubborn and did it anyway.

“So he set out walking. And he walked, and walked, and walked, for days and days. After a couple of weeks of walking he really started to wish he hadn’t sold that hover-board after all…

“Anyway, eventually he came to this place called Hamblin.”

As he was speaking, Harper heard the metallic sound of chains clanking and knew Dylan was back. He listened to the captain settle down on the straw next to Twig but kept going with his story.

“Apparently, Hamblin had a little problem. They were overrun with rats! Big nasty ones with red eyes and long teeth.” Harper made a face and used his right hand to mime pointy teeth. Twig laughed. “The mayor of the town, who had just had his very best hat eaten by rats, offered Jack a thousand thrones if he could get rid of them. To Jack, that sounded like a pretty sweet deal! He was a smart guy, how hard could it be to get rid of a bunch of pesky rodents? So he agreed. Besides, he had just the right idea. He’d brought along his tin whistle and his mom always used to tell him that music soothed the savage beast. So Jack got out his whistle and started to play a nice little jig and those old rats started coming out of everywhere. They were following him, swaying back and forth like a bunch of drunken Nightsiders…”

“Um, Harper,” Dylan’s voice cut into the story. “I think you’re crossing your fairytales again,” the captain said slyly.

“Boss, would you just stay out of this?” Harper returned as Twig giggled. “Haven’t you ever heard of creative license?”

“Well, there’s creative license and then there’s outright mutilation…” Dylan teased. 

Harper stuck his tongue out at him.

“So Jack played his song and the rats followed him away?” Twig asked, interrupting their little power struggle.

“Yep, pretty much, Kiddo,” Harper said, reaching out to pat him clumsily on the knees.

“Well, maybe we could do that here!” Twig exclaimed excitedly. “Maybe if we were loud enough the rats would go away and stop eating on my toes at night!”

Harper laughed sadly. “Probably not, Twig,” he said. “I think that only works in stories. If we started making lots of noise here we’d probably just make the Ubers mad and we all know how fun that is.” He heard Twig sigh. “Hey, it was a good idea, though,” he added quickly. “Now how ‘bout you go on off to bed? You need to sleep more or you’ll get sick, and then I won’t be able to tell you the rest of the story.”

Twig complained but eventually agreed and scampered off to join Ethan and Peter in their bunk.

“You’re getting pretty parental there, _Mama Harper_ ,” Dylan’s voice broke the silence after a minute.

“Oh, bite me,” Harper grumbled, embarrassed. “Besides, someone’s gotta look after the kid, keep him out of trouble, and it’s not like I’m good for anything else.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Dylan said quickly. “I was just saying you’re good with him. I never realized you were a natural with kids is all.”

Memories shot through Harper so fast they sucked his breath out, and he turned his face away to hide the naked emotions he was sure were playing across it. “I guess,” he mumbled. “Hadn’t thought much about it,” he lied quietly. He took a few more moments to compose himself before daring to face the captain again.

“So, you wanna tell me what’s bugging you, Boss?” he asked, careful to keep his voice even and controlled as he changed the subject.

“What makes you think something’s bothering me?” Dylan countered. Harper didn’t dignify that with a response; he simply rolled his eyes.

“I’m just thinking,” Dylan finally replied.

“Wanna think out loud?” Harper pushed, fishing for more. “I hear it’s good for the brain cells…”

“Not yet, Mr. Harper. Not yet.”

Harper knew that tone of voice. The discussion was over. Dylan was in full captain mode and the engineer knew he’d never get more out of him in that state of mind.

“Fine, suit yourself, Boss. Just don’t keep me in the dark for too long, okay? I get enough of that as it is.”

With nothing else to do, Harper left Dylan to his worries and gave in to his weary body. He curled up under his thin blanket and let sleep take him away. Maybe tonight, he could dream of surfing…

*****

Cautiously, Dylan approached the shadowed corner of the camp once again. He’d stayed away for two evenings trying to get his thoughts in order and really, truly examine his plans. The lure of freedom had called loudly but the threat of reality was even louder. He did _not_ want to do something rash! Finally, he’d decided it was a chance they couldn’t pass up, though. He’d gone over and over it in his mind, watched the guards, memorized their movements and routines. He’d even worked out what to say to the others and how to bring Twig along. Tonight he would scope it out one last time and then explain everything to Harper. If all went well they’d be on the run by darkness the next night. And if it didn’t? Well then he’d probably have Twig’s death on his hands and spend the next conceivable amount of time listening to Harper’s screams…

He shook his head. Thoughts like that were not productive at all. He really needed to focus here. Freedom was so close he could almost taste it. He needed to concentrate.

Slowly, he rounded the last corner, still pretending to be walking aimlessly. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at the weak section of fencing…

…and stopped dead in his tracks, his breath knocked away as soundly as if he’d been punched in the gut!

The fence was fixed! Mended! Strung tighter than a Persied! Extra wire had even been woven in, leaving gaps too small for even a kitten to crawl through.

The wave of despair that crashed over him was so huge he actually physically staggered and had to lean against the wall of the nearest barrack for support. He felt sick and lost and like crying all at once.

He’d been so close! They could have been out! Free! If only they’d gone yesterday, or last week! Why had he hesitated? Why was he such a weak fool?

Angrily, he wiped his hands across his face, refusing to let the hot tears fall. He was a failure; he didn’t need to be a wet blanket as well.

Feeling lower than dust, he dragged his feet back to Barrack 6B. Harper raised his head up when he came in and greeted him with a tired “Hey, Boss,” but Dylan ignored him. He couldn’t think of anything to say to his young friend tonight. Instead he simply lay down and turned away, unable to face the concern and confusion on the boy’s face.

*****

Dylan’s dreams turned sour. Sometimes he was watching from afar as the _Andromeda_ was overrun with Magog, his friends and crew slaughtered and himself powerless to help. Sometimes he was on Tarazed, on trial for betraying the Commonwealth at her darkest hour and letting hundreds of worlds fall to the Abyss.

Other dreams were closer to home. He watched as he rallied the slaves to fight against their oppressors, assuring them sheer numbers were enough to be victorious, only to see them be gunned down in waves and fall bleeding and dead before him, their eyes accusing. 

He dreamed of escaping, running away, leaving Harper behind. He knew he could do it if he just didn’t have the boy to slow him down…

He would awake in a cold sweat to the dark stench of the barrack, his heart racing.

At least he wasn’t the only one plagued by nightmares. The longer they stayed the harder it got for Harper to contain his own demons. More often than not, Dylan woke to his muffled screams and cries and had to pull the young man back from whatever monsters were loose in his mind this time. By common consent, they never spoke of their dreams; some things were not meant to be shared.

Dylan’s despondency bled over from his dreams, however. He watched Harper struggle from the mines, his back red and bloody with fresh stripes and his guts twisted. He saw Twig slink from the cave, a dark bruise the size of a large, Uber fist marring his tiny, pale face, his eyes turned away to hide the tears he couldn’t quite hold back and another jolt of failure shot through the captain’s soul.

He saw a curled, crippled hand and remembered his failure to protect his crew.

Blind eyes blinked at him and he recalled broken promises of high dreams and ideals to a friend.

Chains rattled and he clenched his eyes tight, wishing to just shut it all out and fade away.

*****

“Move!” (Crack!) “Faster, dogs!” (Crack!)

The crack of the guard’s whip along with his words just blended into the background of creaks and groans and bangs. They were the same sounds Dylan heard everyday now, and he rarely paid them any mind. The Niet probably didn’t even realize he said them anyway.

By the ache in his arms, the captain figured the long day had to be about over. He grabbed the next bucket full of rocks and slung it up, attaching it to the hook on the rope line. It sagged dangerously but held, just like always.

“At least four more coming up,” the man partnered with him for the day said.

“Thanks,” Dylan muttered.

The faces of two slaves appeared in the hole behind them and pushed forward their buckets. Dylan’s partner grabbed the first and attached it to the moving pulley. It groaned like a being in agony.

Dylan reached for his bucket but his chains caught it on the side and tipped it over. Black rocks spilled out and rolled down into the space under the ropes full of swinging buckets.

Dylan swore harshly and moved to scramble down and gather them back up before the Nietzschean could return with his stinging whip.

“No, wait.” The captain felt a hand on his arm and turned to see the slave who was helping him. “Let me go. Your chains will just slow you down and get in the way. I’ll be much faster.”

Before he could say anything, the smaller man had slipped down the slope into the pit and was hurriedly picking up loose chunks of mineral.

Suddenly, there was a loud snapping sound from just ahead.

“BREAK!” came the panicked yell. “Break in the line! Fall back!”

In horrified slow motion, Dylan watched the rope curl down, the buckets slide back and drop, the dust billow up as they struck. He didn’t have to wait for that dust to clear from the already gloomy light; he knew what he’d see: one broken body lying buried under ten-pound metal buckets and their spilled loads of rocks.

Drunkenly, he staggered to the side and retched what little there was in his stomach. That body, that slave should have been him. It was his clumsiness that tipped the first bucket and put someone in harm’s way to begin with! It should have been him!

But it wasn’t, and the worst part was he didn’t even know the name of the man who’d just died for him.

*****

“So, Boss, how was your day?”

Harper was sitting on their straw, fidgeting slightly with his frayed blanket. Dylan could tell he longed to have his hands deep in the guts of some mechanical project and was trying to keep his thoughts away from what he couldn’t do anymore. Twig was sprawled on the ground nearby, amusing himself with Harper’s game of pebbles and sticks.

Dylan looked away and sighed, but didn’t answer.

“That bad, huh?” Harper said after a bit. “I heard there was some trouble down in the pits today. What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Dylan said softly, leaning back against the barrack wall and bending his legs. His chained hands dangled loosely from his knees.

“Doesn’t sound like nothing, Dylan,” Harper pressed.

“Just drop it, Harper,” Dylan warned.

“Okay,” Harper said quickly, raising his hands in surrender. “I get the message.”

They sat in silence again, Dylan’s thoughts growing darker and more self-repulsive all the time.

“Did you put our dishes away?” Harper asked after a while, trying to make some sort of conversation.

“Yes, Harper, I put the dishes away,” Dylan shot back, annoyed for some reason. Why couldn’t the boy just shut up and leave him alone? Was it too much to ask for five minutes of solitude without having to play caretaker?

“Grumpy…” Harper muttered, turning away a little.

The quiet lasted for about five minutes this time before Harper broke it again.

“Hey, Boss, I know you just got sat down and all, but I kinda need to go visit the little boy’s room before they lock us in. Think we could take a quick field trip?” His voice was purposefully light and joking, trying to avoid upsetting his friend more, but something about it just irked Dylan all the same. The captain snapped.

“Go find it yourself,” he spat.

“What?”

“You heard me,” Dylan growled. “Go find the darn latrine on your own! You’ve been there often enough, you should be able to find it by now! I’m getting sick and tired of having to do everything around here for both of us. _‘Dylan, can you help me up?’ ‘Boss, walk me to the barrack…’_ So you’re blind! Buck up and deal with it like a man instead of hanging onto me like an overgrown baby all the time! I’m trying to figure out how to get us out of here alive; I don’t need all the added distractions!”

The words tumbled from his lips before he could really stop them. He didn’t even realize he was yelling until he quit.

Dead silence filled the barrack, every eye on Dylan. Harper sat in front of him, his face frozen in shock and hurt. Then slowly, so slowly it was painful, the young man got to his feet. 

“I’ll be back in a while,” he said softly. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, held his hands out before him, and felt his way through the open doorway.

Absolute stillness remained behind him. Twig, eyes wide in confusion, glanced from Dylan, to the doorway, back to Dylan again. Then suddenly, he scrambled to his feet and dashed through the door after the engineer.

“Harper, wait!” he called.

His voice shattered the spell that had filled the room. Shame crashed into Dylan and broke through his shock. He let his head sink into his hands.

“That was a rather low blow, mate,” Peter growled darkly at him from a few feet away, his eyes flashing slightly.

“I think he knows that, Pete,” Ethan said quietly, eyeing the captain pointedly. “Very well.”

Dylan closed his eyes and laced his hands behind his head, hunching over. “What have I done?” he breathed, hating himself.


	39. Chapter 38

**Chapter 38**

_Teach us delight in simple things,  
And mirth that has no bitter springs;  
Forgiveness free of evil done,  
And love to all men ‘neath the sun!_

\- Rudyard Kipling

*****

Harper didn’t return until the second curfew had sounded. Dylan was panicked and getting up to go find him when he finally came in, his hand clutching Twig’s shoulder.

“Thanks,” he said softly and patted the boy’s back. “Now go sleep.”

Twig nodded solemnly and left him alone. Slowly and carefully, weariness showing in every motion, Harper found the pile of straw and sank down on it. Without a word, he turned his back on Dylan, lay down, and closed his eyes.

Dylan had never felt more like a monster than he did at that moment.

Morning brought silence between them again but Dylan could feel the hurt and shame radiating from the engineer all the same. And strangely, something was missing: anger. The Harper he knew would have been furious and seething at being treated like that, but this Harper never said a word.

All day as he slaved in the mines, Dylan tried to piece together an apology that might fix what he’d done. It was such a huge sin, though, and words so cheap. He couldn’t believe he’d let everything build up and get to him to the point he hurt the very person he was trying so hard to protect; hurt him probably worse than anything the Nietzscheans had ever done to him.

Harper avoided him at dinner. Simon was feeling better and the young man sought refuge with him. That was okay with Dylan, who sat by himself and tried to figure out what to say. Twig flitted back and forth, not knowing where to be or who to stay with, his huge, solemn eyes darting between the two men. Finally, Ethan took pity on the boy and called him over to play cards.

The food tasted even worse than usual. Dylan ate it mechanically, choking it down, then rose and rinsed his dishes before retreating to the barrack and his thoughts.

Sometime later, Dylan heard the clank of chains. He watched as Harper made his way to their bed and sat quietly down.

“Dylan?” he asked after a while, not sure if the man was even there.

“I’m here, Harper,” the captain said, his voice full of shame.

They both fell silent, neither one sure what to say. Finally, the older man couldn’t stand it any longer. “Harper,” he said watching the engineer carefully, “I’m so sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean any of it! I was just tired and worried and keeping things to myself when I should have been discussing them with you and I snapped. But that’s still no excuse. My words were in no way fitting of a High Guard Captain, and worse I acted like a really lousy friend. I’m not sure how to make it up to you but I do want to try!”

Harper was shaking his head before the captain was halfway done. “Boss, stop,” he finally broke in, holding up his good hand. “Just stop okay?” He paused. “Simon told me what happened in the mine yesterday, Dylan. I’m sorry.”

That was not what Dylan had expected to hear. “How did he know?” he asked in surprise.

Harper shrugged. “He’s Simon, usually he just does.”

“That doesn’t excuse my behavior, though,” Dylan said.

“No, but it does help explain it,” Harper returned, drawing his knees up to his chest. “Don’t worry about it, Dylan,” Harper said sadly.

“Harper, I was awful to you!” Dylan cried. “You should be angry with me, yell at me, punch me, something!”

Harper hugged his knees tighter and turned his face in Dylan’s direction. “Boss, I’m gonna cut right to the chase here. What you said hurt like crap, burned like vinegar in an open cut, and believe me when I say I do know what that feels like, but you didn’t mean it. And even if you did, it doesn’t matter. Look, you say it’s important to keep our hopes up and stay positive and for the most part I’m willing to humor you and play along, but the truth is I’m under no illusions that I’m ever getting out of this place, Dylan. Not alive anyway. Frankly, getting angry or worked up over something you said because the stress got to you is too much trouble. I’m gonna die here, I’d rather not push the only family I have away because he occasionally acts like a jerk.”

“A complete jerk who still owes you a very big apology,” Dylan said gently, upset by Harper’s blunt admission of hopelessness.

“Apology accepted,” Harper replied. “And for the record, I’ll try and be a little less clingy and more independent. I know I’m hard to have constantly hanging around. Just ask Beka.”

“Harper, you don’t have to do that. Please, I want to help and I am glad to have you around, especially here,” Dylan said quickly, still feeling immensely guilty.

“We’ll see,” Harper said dismissively, shrugging his shoulders.

“I mean it,” Dylan stressed.

“Okay, enough with the sappiness, Boss. This place reeks bad enough as it is. Let’s just forget it ever happened and move on, okay?”

For the most part, they tried. Dylan, unable to forget, groveled until Harper snapped at him one day and told him to stop it or he’d deck him, and do it when the captain was asleep so he’d be sure to hit his target. Dylan took the hint, but he also tried to be more careful. He started talking to the engineer again, even about stupid little things. He hated everything about the mess they were in except for one part, the friendship he’d developed with the young man, a young man he realized he’d never really known before. He knew he’d have completely lost everything if he lost that. At least it seemed to be firm again. Still, Dylan couldn’t help noticing that Harper turned to the others for help more often now, or struggled through silently on his own. Some damage, Dylan realized sadly, just couldn’t be covered or repaired.

*****

“What do you miss the most?”

Harper rolled carefully over onto his ruined back to better hear his friend, since apparently neither of them were sleeping. “You mean besides my friends and my freedom and my sight, right?” he asked the man lying next to him.

“Of course,” Dylan agreed, laughing a little. It was a mark of how far their friendship had progressed that the man even dared ask the question.

Harper thought about it for a minute. “Promise you won’t laugh?” he asked.

“No, because I could use a good laugh, but I promise not to laugh _at_ you.”

Harper reached over and swatted the older man lightly. “Fine, be that way.”

“So, tell me, what do you miss the most?”

“My hair,” Harper finally admitted, blushing furiously.

Dylan was surprised by the answer and raised himself up on one elbow to look at the boy. “Your hair?”

“Yeah. I hate these bi-weekly buzz cuts. They’re itchy and they cramp my style.”

Dylan laughed heartily. 

“See, told ya you’d laugh!” Harper whined. 

“Sorry, Mr. Harper,” Dylan said, wiping his eyes as he chuckled.

“No, you’re not,” Harper shot back, allowing a smile onto his own lips. “So, what about you? What do you miss the most?”

“Comfortable chairs,” Dylan replied firmly. “I’m getting too old to be sitting on the ground all the time.”

“Yeah, chairs were nice…” Harper agreed. “And hot showers.”

“…and Rommie’s cooking…”

“…and engineering, and my tools, and jacking-in…”

“…and giving orders and having people actually follow them…”

“We did that? I don’t remember following orders. I think you’re delusional…”

Dylan elbowed him gently in the side. “Hush. I like my delusions.”

“Okie-dokie, Captain Delusion.”

“I miss my ship, Mr. Harper,” Dylan said softly after they’d fallen silent again. “I’m a captain. What good is a captain without a ship?”

“I miss your ship, too,” Harper said. “Her eyes, that shape, those lips…” 

Dylan swatted him again.

“Ouch, Boss!” he teased. “Easy on the engineer. I was just admiring her finer qualities, as any good engineer should!”

Dylan snorted. “Totally from an engineering standpoint, right?”

“Totally,” Harper agreed fervently.

“You know, I even kinda miss Trance and all her injections,” Harper said after a bit.

Dylan glanced sadly up and down the young man, noting the many healing injuries or scars. “Me too, Harper,” he agreed softly.

“And Tyr and his…well… _Tyrness_.”

Dylan laughed.

“And Sparky Cola. Definitely miss that,” Harper went on, licking his lips dreamily.

“And pizza,” Dylan added fervently.

“Pizza? You?”

“Yes, pizza. I _love_ pizza. Any kind, all toppings. Love it so much that Rommie banned me from eating it more than three times a week. Something about my cholesterol…”

“How come I never knew this? Boss, you freakin’ should have told me! I am the king of pizza! I can show you toppings that you’ve never dreamed of, _and_ I can show you how to program Rommie so she thinks you’re having pasta when you’re eating it.” He smiled slyly.

“We get out of here, that’s your first assignment, got it?” Dylan ordered.

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Harper said, making a lazy mock salute with his good hand and bashing his nose with the dangling chain. “Ouch,” he muttered. “See why we don’t salute? It’s dangerous.”

“Ah, so that’s it…”

They fell silent again, each dreaming of the past and small comforts often taken for granted then but desperately missed now. A chill breeze crept through the barrack from the open doorway, and Harper pulled his ragged blanket closer to his chin, his empty eyes staring at the ceiling. Stiff and his muscles cramping, Dylan gave up on sleep and pushed up to a sitting position, wrapping his own thin blanket around his shoulders and turning to face his friend.

“What was it like,” Harper asked after a while, “for you, growing up on Tarn Vedra, the home of the Commonwealth and jewel of the skies? Was it totally great?”

“Yeah, it was great, but for me, it was just normal. Until I joined the High Guard, I’d never lived anywhere else. Tarn Vedra wasn’t this famous planet to me, it was just home.”

“What did you do, when you were a kid?”

There was a note of longing in Harper’s voice that Dylan didn’t miss beside the open curiosity.

“Well, I was just a normal kid. I went to school, hung out with my friends, made my parents’ hair turn grey. And I was really big on sports…”

“…hence the basketball hoop in hydroponics…”

“Yeah,” Dylan laughed. “I’ve always loved basketball. I signed up for my first team when I was seven and fell in love. ‘Pro Basketball Player’ was my top career choice until I was about thirteen. I also played a lot of NaAnac; that’s a Nietzschean sport,” Dylan explained.

“I know. Brendan and I used to sneak under the fence around the camp and watch the Niet kids play it outside their schools. Brendan loved it and wanted to try, but Kludges were banned from playing sports. I didn’t mind though, I was always more interested in what was inside the schools. Not that I ever got a chance to find out, mind you… Anyway, go on. What else did you do? Where did you live?”

“Dad was a gardener in the Imperial Gardens and Mom worked as a pilot so we had to be close to the city. We lived in a human suburb about a thirty minute shuttle ride from the capital. Far enough away Dad could have his trees and his gardens, but close enough Mom could have her shops. And the mountains were only a short flight away.” Dylan’s voice took on a dreamy quality as he remembered things he hadn’t allowed himself to think about for a very long time. “Dad used to take us camping all the time, sometimes two or three times a month in the summer. It was great!”

“I don’t think I like camping,” Harper added, scrunching up his face slightly.

“Well, it’s a lot better when you’re not chained to a post…” Dylan said.

“Good point.”

Dylan let his mind drift, losing himself in the good memories and recalling the faces of people from his past.

“You miss them, don’t you,” Harper said knowingly.

“Yeah,” Dylan agreed softly, his voice rough.

“I’m sorry,” the engineer offered sincerely. “I know what it’s like to lose everyone, but at least for me, I usually had time to prepare. I lived my whole life knowing that at any moment someone could be gone. Kinda gives you a certain mindset and you build up coping mechanisms. But for you, one second they were there and the next everyone was gone. No warning, no preparation. And they hadn’t even really died, just disappeared where you couldn’t reach them. That’s ten times worse and I’m sorry.”

“Thank you, Mr. Harper,” Dylan said.

“I guess we’re more alike than I thought,” Harper continued quietly. “It’s just that you do such a good job at projecting the image of the unflappable Captain Hunt, I sometimes forget how much you’ve lost. We’ve both lost almost everyone from our pasts, and we both hide it from others behind carefully built lies. Me? I’m the funny little guy, cocky, sarcastic, irreverent… You? You’re the mighty High Guard Captain, never shaken, always in control… Sometimes I think we even fool ourselves.”

“Sometimes that’s who I’m trying to fool the most,” Dylan whispered. Then he cleared his throat loudly and regained his composure. “What about you, Harper? Surely there must have been some good times in your childhood, nice memories to share?”

“Well yeah, of course there were good times. Sometimes, someone in the clan would get a hold of a keg or two of Nietzschean whiskey and then the good times would roll. I tell ya, you ain’t seen nothing until you’ve seen an all-out Boston Bash! The Ubers didn’t even dare come in to break it up when we really got going. And there are good memories from earlier, when my parents were still alive. Mom had the gift of telling stories and we used to listen to her for hours. She could make us forget everything; the Ubers, the Magog, our empty stomachs. Her voice was like pure magic.”

“I think perhaps her son has inherited that gift,” Dylan said with a smile.

Harper grinned. 

“What else?” Dylan urged.

“Brendan and Isaac and I got great kicks out of ticking off the Ubers, and when I was younger, Brendan and Declan and Siobhan and I used to scrounge around in the trash and make all sorts of strange creations. They got tired of it as they grew older, but I guess it sorta stuck with me.” His voice grew quiet suddenly. “And there was the Christmas I was fifteen. I got my rabbit’s foot that year.”

Dylan waited to see if he would explain more, but the young man had grown quiet, apparently lost in memories of his own.

“How long do you think we’ve been here?” Harper asked suddenly after the silence had stretched for several minutes.

“I really don’t know,” Dylan admitted. “I’ve sorta lost track of time. Five or six months at least, I’d guess. Why?”

“Just thinking,” Harper said evasively, then changed his mind and offered a bit more. “It’s just, I’m pretty sure I’m twenty-four now. I should have had my birthday about three months after we got home from that last mission. If you’re even close to being right, it’s past now.” He sighed a little. “That’s birthday number three I’ve spent as a slave. I have _got_ to find better ways to celebrate. And the worst thing is Beka mentioned she had a really cool surprise for me but I had to wait to find out, and now I’ll never know and always have to wonder what it was.”

Dylan didn’t know what to say. ‘Happy Birthday’ hardly seemed appropriate when Harper was lying next to him in chains, half-starved and a slave.

“I really hope she remembered to renew my subscription to _Intergalactic Surfers_ , too. I’m sure it’s run out by now and I would hate to miss any issues,” Harper continued, saving Dylan from having to speak after all.

“We’ll backorder the issues if she didn’t,” Dylan assured Harper kindly. 

“Thanks.” Harper yawned and rolled painfully over onto his side, still facing Dylan. The captain watched as the young man’s eyes began to drift shut. “Maybe we can get them in Braille,” he muttered tiredly and tugged at his blanket, trying to get it to cover his shoulders. “That would be good…” 

His eyes closed, his breathing evened out, and Dylan knew he was asleep.

Dylan reached out and gently covered the boy’s shoulders with the ragged blanket. “Happy Birthday, Mr. Harper,” he said sadly. “I promise this is absolutely the last one you’ll spend as a slave.”


	40. Chapter 39

**Chapter 39**

_Perhaps I know why it is man alone who laughs: he alone suffers so deeply that he had to invent laughter._

\- Friedrich Nietzsche

*****

Several days later, Harper and Dylan sat quietly on the ground outside their barrack, waiting for curfew to sound. Both were too tired for much talking, but they weren’t ready for the stifling confines of the prison yet. For the most part, they were used to the stench now, but sometimes it was nice to enjoy the outside air. Harper also knew that Dylan found solace in the view of the mountains and sunset, and who was he to deny the man one small pleasure in this horrible place. 

“Twig’s been avoiding me,” Dylan said suddenly, causing Harper to abruptly raise his head.

“What?” he asked.

“He doesn’t come around as much when I’m by myself, and he keeps giving me this really skittish look; you know that kind of ‘deer in the headlights’ look.”

Harper shrugged his shoulders. Little things like that were lost to him now. “I hadn’t noticed. I just thought he was being kinda quiet, maybe extra tired. The Ubers pick on him pretty hard sometimes, and he’s only a little guy.”

“I know, and it’s one more thing about this place that makes me livid, but I’m pretty sure it’s not that this time. No, he’s definitely spooked by me about something. Just wish I knew what. Can’t get him to tell me.”

“I can ask him if you want me to. Maybe I can get him to spill?”

“Thanks. The kid’s kinda grown on me, too. I miss him hanging around, asking me about our ‘adventures’.”

Just then the first whistle pierced the night air, ending their conversation. Stiffly, the two friends got to their feet and made their way into the barrack for another night.

*****

“Harper, you just placed your lowest card down against Dylan’s best,” Twig said with a little laugh as he crouched next to the two men, his chin in his arms as they rested on his knees.

“Hey, not my fault! _You_ were supposed to be helping me weren’t you?” Harper cried indignantly to the little boy. “So I wouldn’t do stupid things like that.”

“Yup, but he didn’t, and that means I win,” Dylan gloated teasingly, gathering up the cards. 

“Dumb cards all feel the same,” Harper grumbled good-naturedly. “I’m done with this game.”

“Wanna play again, Twig?” Dylan asked laughing. “Just me and you?”

“Um…no. I think I’m gonna go…um…visit the latrine,” the boy said, suddenly sounding on edge. He stood up quickly and started to dash for the door.

“Hey, wait!” Harper called before the sound of small footsteps got too far away. “Wait up and I’ll come with ya. I need to visit there myself.”

Twig came back and stood by fidgeting while Harper got himself and all his cumbersome chains upright.

“Where are you?” the engineer asked, reaching out for the boy’s shoulder and finding nothing but empty space.

“Sorry,” Twig said and stepped into his reach. Harper settled his right hand on Twig’s shoulder and gave it a friendly squeeze while he used his left hand to clumsily pull his irons up off the ground.

“Thanks,” he said to the boy with a smile. Then he turned to Dylan. “We might be a bit, honey. Don’t wait up,” he teased with a wink, but also a knowing nod.

“Fine,” Dylan answered back, catching Harper’s meaning. “Leave me home alone while you go out on the town. See if I care…”

Harper laughed as they maneuvered their way out of the barrack, but he couldn’t help noticing that Twig didn’t join in with his giggles like usual.

On the way back from the latrine Harper pulled Twig to a stop. “I’m not ready to go back in yet. How about we walk for a bit?” he suggested.

The child looked at his friend in surprise. “But you don’t like to walk around out here without Dylan!” he said.

“Well, tonight I do, just for a few minutes. Just keep our barrack in sight, okay, and lead us some place where there are less Ubers around.”

The little boy hesitated and so Harper squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. “It’s all right, Twig. I trust you.”

“Um, okay,” he said, his voice lacking confidence. He started to walk slowly forward but Harper stopped him again.

“Here,” the engineer said letting go of Twig’s shoulder and holding out his hand. “Grab my hand instead. Then you can walk next to me and not in front of me. Makes it easier to talk that way.”

Harper felt the boy’s little hand slide into his own stiff one and then the child tugged him gently forward. 

“So, why are you scared of Dylan all the sudden,” Harper asked after a few minutes of what felt to him like walking in circles. “What’s wrong?”

Twig was silent for so long Harper wasn’t sure he was going to answer. Finally, he spoke hesitantly. “Aren’t you mad at him?”

“Me?” Harper asked, stopping abruptly and pulling Twig to a stop as well.

“Yeah,” Twig said, scuffing his feet as he stalled again.

“Why should I be?”

“Because…well…he was really mean to you. He said a lot of bad, nasty things to you and it…it…”

The light went on in Harper’s head, and he suddenly knew what this was all about. “…and he scared you, didn’t he. When he yelled at me.”

Twig nodded solemnly, unable to look up. Then he remembered Harper couldn’t see and mumbled a “yeah” as well. “I thought he was nice, and then he acted just like all the others and the Ubers!” he finally blurted.

Harper slid his hand up Twig’s arm until he reached his shoulder, then reached out and carefully placed his other hand on the opposite shoulder, turning the boy to face him. “Twig, I know this is hard to understand, but Dylan wasn’t really mad at me. He was frustrated and tired and worried and hurting and I just happened to be the one who was there when he lost it. But he didn’t mean any of it, and he told me he was very sorry later and I forgave him, okay?”

“Why?”

“Because he’s my friend. That’s what friends do.”

“But what if he does it again?” Twig asked fearfully. “What if I’m bothering him and he yells at me?”

Harper sighed. He’d never been very good at this big brother/parent stuff and now he was woefully out of practice. He decided to try a different route. “Twig, do you like living here? Being yelled at and hurt by the Ubers, always told what to do?”

“No…but where else would I live?” the boy asked in genuine confusion.

“Never mind that right now,” Harper said quickly. “My point is, neither does Dylan, and unlike us, he’s not used to it. He’s used to running around out there in the stars and helping people – being free. It’s really, really hard on him, being here. Sometimes he just gets angry or sad or upset. Not at us, but at how unfair it is that we have to be here. So I can’t guarantee that he’ll never get angry and yell again, but he won’t be mad at us, okay? And I know he’ll try his hardest never, ever to yell at you. You’re his friend, too, and he’s really worried about you. He thinks you don’t like him anymore.”

“He does?” Twig asked, his voice sounding hopeful.

“Yep. He asked me to see if you were okay and to tell you he’s sorry that he might have upset you.”

Twig thought about that for a moment and then finally he nodded again. “Okay. I’m all right now.”

Harper smiled. “Good. Should we go tell Dylan he’s not scary anymore and that you’re okay?”

“Sure,” the boy replied and put his hand back in the engineer’s, tugging him in the right direction. “But I still say he sounds like a monster when he sleeps,” Twig said over his shoulder. “Nobody else’s nose whistles that loud at night.”

Harper snorted with laughter. “I totally agree, Twig. _Totally_!”

*****

The slave behind him gave him an irritated nudge, so Harper shuffled awkwardly forward in line, trying to keep his bearings and balance and let his mind wander far away at the same time. 

It was “shaving day” again. Twice a week, the slaves were forced into lines after morning roll-call to be shaved for “pest control and sanitation purposes.” _Yeah right_ … Every single living thing inside that camp, right down to the lice who still made themselves at home in the slaves’ skin, knew that the sole purpose of these little exercises was power; who had it and who didn’t.

And “shaving days” were always the same. Rosie stood in the middle of it all, barking orders as the slaves were herded into lines. Sometimes Dylan and Harper or Harper and Twig managed to stay together. Sometimes, like today, he wound up on his own and at the mercy of others.

First would come the order to “STRIP!” And this time Rosie meant everything. Unfortunately, stripping was much easier for people who weren’t kept constantly in chains. They simply slipped out of their rags and held them in their arms until it was over. Harper and Dylan, however, had to make do, improvise, and try not to trip and fall flat on their very bare backsides.

Harper felt another none-too-gentle shove to his back. “Something wrong with saying please?” he mumbled, not really wanting to be overheard as he couldn’t be sure who was standing around. Carefully, he shuffled forward a couple more steps.

Soon it was his turn. He went through the process on auto-pilot. By now he was pretty much numb to degradation, but he did admit it was the only hour of his life he was actually grateful to be blind. He sat when he was told to sit, stood when commanded to stand, raised his arms above his head when asked, and basically attempted to zone-out in his mind so he could ignore how foolish he felt…and how violated. Around here the shave-o-matic slave special was an all-body experience, and he really tried not to think about the fact that it was the few, pathetic female slaves that had the job. Of course they were probably a bit more gentle than the Niets would have been, but Harper was still glad he didn’t have to watch.

After months in the camp, Harper knew the mortifying ritual by heart, so he was caught off guard by a small change of routine this time. Satisfactorily hair-free, he expected to be sent off to dress and go to work, but instead the slave girl quietly asked him to hold out his right arm. He gasped in surprise when a needle pricked him just below the bend of his elbow and had to clench his teeth as he felt something being injected into the vein. It burned like fire and must have been one heck of a large dose because it took forever to dump it all in.

“What’s this?” he couldn’t help blurting, but the slave girl gave him no answer. Instead she pushed the last drop in and pulled the needle out. Taking his crippled hand in her own, she guided his thumb to the injection spot and pressed it down. “Keep pressure on it for several minutes,” she advised. “Now go put your clothes on and go to work.” Then, just as he was about to try and make his way to a safe spot to dress and wait for Dylan to find him, he heard her speak again, so soft he wasn’t sure whether he imagined it or not. “I’m sorry,” she whispered sadly.

Those quiet, mournful words scared Harper more than the shot itself.


	41. Chapter 40

**Chapter 40**

_Insanity – a perfectly rational adjustment to an insane world._

\- R.D. Lang

*****

“There you are!” Dylan said, finding his engineer in an out of the way corner at last. The young man was fully dressed again, the skin on his face red and raw as it always was after a forced shave. “I was getting really worried, and we’re gonna be late for the mines if you don’t…” He trailed off as he saw the kid’s expression. “Harper, what’s wrong?”

“How was your turn?” Harper asked quietly, referring to what they’d both just come from.

“Dehumanizing, as usual. Why?”

“Did you get anything…um…extra in the package today?” 

“No…” Dylan said, worry skyrocketing. “Why, did you?”

“Um…yeah…I think so.”

“You think so?” Dylan panicked, grabbing the engineer gently by the arm and turning the boy to face him, looking him over thoroughly. “What happened!”

“I got a shot, an injection of some kind. I don’t know what…” Harper sounded scared.

“Where?” Dylan asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

“My arm,” Harper replied in a small voice, holding it out for his captain to see.

Dylan took his friend’s arm and pushed up the sleeve, studying it closely. He noted the small hole that was still leaking just a bit of red blood, but it didn’t look swollen or inflamed.

“Perhaps it was more medicine?” he suggested desperately. “Or vitamins?”

“Boss, she told me she was sorry,” the young man whispered, terror showing in his voice.

Dylan closed his eyes briefly, his insides churning from his helplessness. “Do you feel sick? Are you in extra pain?”

Slowly, as if pondering it, Harper shook his head.

“Could you tell if anyone else –”

“Hey, you over there!” a loud, authoritative voice yelled at them. Dylan turned around swiftly as Harper raised his head. “Get a move – Oh, it’s _you_ two…” It was their old friend Javan. He looked positively gleeful at catching them shirking, his fingers stroking the whip coiled on his belt.

Instinctively, Dylan moved in front of Harper.

“Thought you’d take the day off, little slaves?” Javan sneered.

“No, Master,” Harper spoke up quietly, anticipating that they were in trouble and trying to move past Dylan. “We were on our way.”

“I was just getting him,” Dylan added, gently pushing Harper back again, “to help him find his way there.”

“Ah, yes,” Javan smiled condescendingly, reaching out and pulling Harper away from Dylan. “The poor, wee slave that can’t see…” he laughed, clicking his tongue. “Such a shame…” Harper lowered his head as he was plucked away from Dylan, waiting for some form of punishment. There was _always_ punishment.

Dylan gritted his teeth. Couldn’t they give Harper a break? He’d just been injected with who knows what, he didn’t need this as well. “Please, Master,” he ground out, “let him go. It’s not his fault he’s blind and he had to wait for me.”

Javan ignored him. “I have so missed the fun we used to have,” he purred to Harper, grabbing the boy’s chin and roughly turning his face toward him.

“Hm, that’s strange, ‘cause at some point I downloaded a dictionary into my brain and I don’t seem to recall the words pain and humiliation anywhere in the definition of _fun_. But then, you Ubers do seem to use a different dictionary than the rest of us folks.” Harper’s mouth spat the words before his brain could stop it. Inwardly he groaned. So much for all his lectures to Dylan on how to survive as a slave…

The force of the backhand knocked him to his hands and knees at Javan’s feet. In an even slightly fair universe he would have seen stars.

“Stupid, brainless Kludge,” Javan growled. “I thought for sure this place would have beaten that disrespect out of you by now, but apparently you need more lessons still.”

Harper pushed himself up off the ground to his knees. “Or maybe you Niets just aren’t very good teachers,” he muttered under his breath. He knew he shouldn’t, but he really couldn’t help himself. Besides, he already had it coming, might as well make the most of it.

This time it was the whip that struck him, catching him in the front and slicing across his arms and chest. He braced himself for more.

“Get up,” the guard ordered coldly. Harper clamped his lips shut before they could dig him even farther into his grave and struggled to his feet, the whip nipping at his ankles. The moment he was upright, hands shoved him roughly and he landed several feet away in a heap in the dirt. He groaned as the air was knocked from his lungs.

“I said get up.”

Again, Harper found his feet and again they were knocked out from under him and he tasted dirt.

Dylan watched the “entertainment” with fury growing inside until it reached a point where he knew he couldn’t contain it. No matter what the consequences, he wouldn’t stand by and watch this anymore. He balled up his fists and was about to step forward when two arms grabbed him and held him back.

“Don’t,” a firm voice whispered in his ear while the hands restrained him tightly. He recognized the voice as Marcus, their barrack guard. “It will only make it worse. There’s nothing you can do. And if you try, I will be forced to punish you as well.”

Furious, Dylan looked away, unable to watch Harper get shoved to the ground for a third time as he stood helplessly by.

“Get up!” Javan ordered again, but this time Harper didn’t move. His hands were in agony from catching his weight and he was tired, tired of playing this game. He was also slightly lightheaded, and he didn’t know if it was from the blows or the injection. Whatever it was from, his head was spinning. The whip bit at his legs and feet but he didn’t care. He just ducked his head and lay there groveling at the Nietzschean’s boots, waiting for it to end. 

“Pathetic,” he heard Javan mutter, and then it was silent. He was just starting to wonder if the Uber had left when he felt something warm and wet hit him, and he didn’t need eyes to recognize fresh urine; his nose worked just fine. He blushed with shame and disgust. 

“A more pathetic beast I have never seen,” Javan continued, leaning down low to make sure Harper heard his words. “You aren’t even fun to play with anymore! You’re fit for nothing but the mines, and barely that.” He spat in the prone engineer’s face and then straightened up. “Now, go to work and thank whatever you believe in that we have let you live!” He kicked him in the ribs for good measure and then walked away in disgust.

The moment he was out of sight, Marcus released Dylan. The captain rushed to the engineer’s side not caring if Marcus stuck around or not.

“Harper, are you all right?” he asked gently.

Slowly, the young man pushed himself back up to his knees, his crippled arm wrapped around his ribs. “Need a bath,” he muttered, scrunching up his nose in repulsion. He felt the spittle running down his face and used his sleeve to wipe it off. 

“I’m sorry,” Dylan said helplessly. “They wouldn’t let me help you.”

“I know,” Harper replied. “It’s okay. Just forget about it and get me up, okay? I’m not feeling too great, and I just wanna get this day over with.” He remembered the sensation of the injection pushing through his veins and the slave girl’s whispered words. He shivered slightly in fear, trying not to let it show and couldn’t help wondering if he would even live through the day.

Dylan pulled the boy to his feet and steadied him, worried by his admission. 

“Thanks,” Harper said. He wrinkled his face again. “Ugh, I reek! As if it wasn’t bad enough before. Sorry you have to smell me,” he offered as he took the captain’s arm.

“Not your fault,” Dylan replied sadly.

“Yeah, whatever. Just take us to the mines. Maybe I can sweat it off. 

*****

When Harper came out of the mines he was singing again.

Loudly.

And he wouldn’t stop.

Dylan shepherded the young man to their spot in roll-call, begging him to be quite, but Harper hardly seemed to hear him. If he’d had to guess, Dylan would have pegged him as stone drunk. Finally, using his best no-nonsense captain’s voice, he ordered the engineer to shut up so they wouldn’t both get killed. It worked…

…for a while.

They made it through roll-call, Harper fidgeting like a five-year-old and Dylan praying for the Ubers not to care, because there was no way on earth they could fail to notice.

Dinner was disgusting, but it didn’t really matter as most of Harper’s ended up down his front and most of Dylan’s on the ground.

“Harper!” Dylan snapped sharply, “Sit still and eat! You need all the food you can get.”

“Can’t,” Harper replied distractedly, drumming his hands on his bouncing knees as he sat cross-legged in the dirt. “Can’t stop. Gotta keep moving, working…” His voice trailed off and he swung his head around as if looking for something only he could see.

Frustrated, Dylan reached out and physically stilled the boy’s limbs. “Harper, eat!” he ordered, pushing what was left of the pathetic food into his hands.

Recognizing the tone of voice, Harper tried to do as he was told, and Dylan watched, consumed with worry. He was almost one hundred percent certain he was seeing the effects of whatever the Nietzscheans had injected into the boy, and he had no idea what to expect. It terrified him.

Harper’s stillness lasted for all of two minutes before the restlessness started up again. The dish of watery soup tipped over in his lap and fell in the dirt, spilling what little remained. Dylan sighed. His own supper had already bit the dust thanks to his blind friend so there was really no point in them sitting there any longer.

“Harper” Dylan said loudly, forcing the boy to turn towards him. “Listen to me. I’m going to go wash our dishes and then I’ll be right back for you. Stay here! I repeat, stay here and don’t move, okay!”

“Okie dokie, Bosserokie!” Harper said as he gave the captain a sloppy thumbs-up, a horribly lopsided grin on his thin face. 

Dylan didn’t return the smile. There was nothing even remotely funny about this. He got wearily to his feet and hurried to the barrels of stale, putrid water to “wash” their mess-kits. He didn’t dare leave Harper alone for long when the kid was acting like this, but he wasn’t sure he could manage the dishes and the wacked-out engineer at the same time.

“…water, water…gotta go get more water…can’t find the water!...”

A small, scared voice interrupted his thoughts on his way back from rinsing their kits. He stopped and turned around, trying to find the source. It was coming from just behind the first barrack on his right.

He walked over and turned the corner. Twig was there, pacing round and round in a tight circle, tears streaming down his pale cheeks as sobs wracked his small body.

“…can’t find the water!...gonna be so mad!...gotta get more water…can’t stop…” His arms squeezed his body tightly and his voice hiccupped.

Dylan’s heart broke.

“Hey,” he said softly, tucking the dishes under one arm. Twig jumped and gazed at him with terror-filled eyes. “Sh,” he soothed, “it’s okay. It’s just me, Dylan,” urged the captain, putting a gentle hand on the boy’s shaking shoulder.

“I can’t find the water,” Twig whispered. “I lost my bucket! They’re gonna hurt me…”

“No, you didn’t lose it,” Dylan reassured. “They aren’t gonna hurt you. It’s just time to stop for the night.”

“But the water? I gotta go get more water…” Twig insisted.

“No, you don’t. Not right now. Right now I want you to come walk with me, okay?” The boy didn’t say anything, just continued to stare at the captain with fever-bright eyes. “Come on,” Dylan said, gently pulling the child along with him. “Let’s go find Harper and go inside for the night.” Inside, where he could keep an eye on both of his suddenly crazy charges. Apparently, Harper wasn’t the only one who got the extra shave-day special. _Why_ though? What was the point of all this? To drive the slaves mad? To make them sick? Was it a poison? Were the Niets thinning the slave population? Weeding out the weak? Or were they just getting some sick entertainment? Dylan didn’t know, and that was the worst part.

“Hey, Rommie! I said to freakin’ turn on the lights! I’m trying to work here!”

Dylan sighed as he heard the voice yelling loudly from the commons. He could tell it was going to be a long night…


	42. Chapter 41

**Chapter 41**

_Draw a crazy picture,  
Write a nutty poem,  
Sing a mumble-gumble song,  
Whistle through your comb.  
Do a loony-goony dance  
'Cross the kitchen floor,  
Put something silly in the world  
That ain't been there before._

\- Shel Silverstein

*****

It was only through sheer will-power that Dylan got Twig and Harper into the barrack without killing the young engineer. Curfew sounded while he was trying to drag Harper away from the imaginary slipstream coil he was fixing. It was at least an hour early, something that put Dylan even more on edge. If the Nietzscheans were locking them in early, there was definitely something freaky going on. 

And once inside, it became clear this was an even bigger incident than he’d first thought. It was immediately evident that two others slaves were in the same boat as Harper and Twig. One was rocking back and forth in the corner, talking non-stop to himself, and the other was racing up and down the center of the barrack, yelling loudly.

“Whoo hoo!” Harper shouted. “Are we having a party? Hot diggity, break out the beer!” And off he went to join in, twisting out of Dylan’s grasp. 

“Harper, come back! You can’t –”

Dylan’s warning was pointless as Harper tripped over his chains and fell flat on his face after only two steps. He came up grinning. “Watch that first step; it’s a doozie!” He got gracelessly to his feet and lumbered off again, straight into a wall. “Ouch! For the last time, Rommie, turn on the freakin’ lights!” he screamed at the ceiling.

All the commotion and yelling were too much for Twig who dissolved into hiccupping sobs once more, clinging to Dylan’s shirt. 

“They’re gonna hurt me…see, they’re here to get me! Please don’t let them hurt me!” he wailed between gasps for air.

Dylan closed his eyes and breathed deeply while behind him the bars of the prison clanged shut for the night. Then he did the only thing he could think of; he resorted to battle strategies. Divide and conquer.

Peter and Ethan came up and gently extracted their young bunk-mate from his death grip on Dylan’s shirt. Whispering quiet, soothing words, they took turns walking the child up and down the barrack since he seemed unable to sit still for longer than a minute or two. Friends of the other wild slave stepped forward and corralled him, playing along with his delusions and moving him to the back half of the barrack. Simon, still weak from his recent illness, took it upon himself to try and calm the other, mumbling slave. This left Dylan free to deal with Harper.

Everyone resigned themselves to a sleepless night.

*****

“…but if we realign the sensors to scan for intermittent signals we can… No, no, that won’t work! We gotta _boost_ the sensors not realign them…”

Harper was pacing back and forth, wringing his hands.

“What?” he asked, stopping as if to listen to someone. “No, that won’t work either!”

“Harper,” Dylan asked tiredly, blocking the engineer’s path out of the corner and watching him as he moved and mumbled in his delusions. “Who are you talking to?”

“Hohne!” Harper snapped, “Who did you think I was talking to, the guy’s standing right here! Now why won’t you let me get out of here and go to work? This whole freakin’ ship is falling apart and you won’t let me touch it!” he seethed.

“Harper, you’re not on the _Andromeda_ ,” Dylan explained for the fiftieth time. “Why don’t you just try and sit still for a bit. I bet Hohne’s tired…”

“Dylan, he’s a Perseid and its science. Of _course_ he’s not tired!”

“Just thought I’d ask…” Dylan muttered, running a hand across his face.

*****

“Come on, Twig, it’s all right,” Ethan soothed, rubbing the child’s back. Once again, the boy had broken out in sobs; huge, frame-wracking sobs.

“But the (hiccup) Uber in the corner (hiccup) says he’s gonna whip me,” the boy moaned, his voice raw from crying. At this rate he would cry himself dry long before morning.

“Twig, there is no Uber in here, I promise you,” Ethan assured, holding the boy close and rocking him. It reminded him of nights spent comforting his own children, only they weren’t high on some unknown drug. 

Sitting beside them and fighting his own tiredness, Peter shook his head. “Poor little bloke. It ain’t right that they do this, an’ on the littlest ones, too…” He sighed. “’ere, let me take ‘im for a bit and you can rest for a few minutes.”

Reluctantly, Ethan passed Twig over. “He’ll probably start going hyper on you any time.”

Peter nodded. “Think they’ll make it, or will it be like last time?” he couldn’t help whispering.

“I don’t know…” Ethan answered quietly, sadness in his voice.

“One of these days they’re gonna pay for this, mark my words,” Peter seethed as the little boy in his arms started to squirm suddenly.

“Quiet,” Ethan warned.

*****

“Forty-three bottles of beer on the wall, forty-three bottles of beer…!” Harper screamed at the top of his lungs, rocking back and forth as he sat on the ground.

From the other end of the barrack a voice joined in, loud and off-key. 

“Take one down, pass it around, forty-two bottles of beer on the wall!” There was a small pause for breath… “Forty-two bottles of beer on –”

“Oh, shut up!” an angry voice shouted from one of the bunks. “Can’t you just make them shut up! We gotta get some sleep here!”

“We should just kill ‘em,” another voice growled. Dylan recognized it as Erik’s. “They’re probably gonna die anyway; why should we risk our lives by being over-tired in the mines because they wanna go out with a bang?”

“Are you volunteering for the job?” someone else asked tiredly.

“Maybe… They’re annoying little runts,” Erik replied. “We’d be better off without them!”

“Silence!”

Except for the afflicted slaves who continued to moan, or sing, all eyes swiveled to Simon who stood shaking in the corner from both anger and illness.

“There will be no more talk like this! You disgust me! The lot of you! These men can’t help what’s been done to them, and no matter how it ends, we’ll treat them like human beings until it happens! Otherwise, we’re worse than those that keep us locked in here!”

It worked. The other slaves retreated into their bunks and plugged their ears, trying to sleep. 

Dylan continued to watch and guard Harper, the words _they’re gonna die anyway_ ringing in his ears. Like a rising tide, relentless and unstoppable, emotions flooded him: dread, terror, fear, grief…building up, growing, consuming…

From opposite ends of the barrack, two abused voices rang out steadily. “Forty-one bottles of beer on the wall, forty-one bottles of beer...!”

*****

“Ahhh! Dylan, I can’t see! Why can’t I see?” Harper cried, frantically groping around and clawing at the barrack walls. His limbs flailed uncoordinatedly, his hands always pulled to a stop by the short, two-foot chain that connected them, the shackles on his feet tripping him as he tried to run away. For the first time, Harper seemed to notice his chains. Wildly, he jerked his hands and feet against them, his body out of control.

“Get them off of me!” he screamed, yanking on the slave collar around his neck. “DYLAN!” he yelled in terror, “Take it off!”

Dylan grabbed him and pulled him down to the floor. He wrapped his arms around the crazed engineer as best he could with his own wrists trapped, and held him tight to keep the kid from hurting himself more. His breathing was harsh and the boy was sweating rivers. 

“Let me go! Who are you? LET ME GO!”

Harper punched and clawed and bit, but Dylan hung on until the young man used up all of the energy he had for the moment.

“Sh, Harper,” the exhausted captain coaxed in a strained voice. “Come on; fight your way through this! You have to! Don’t let the Ubers win!”

After a few minutes, Harper seemed to recognize his voice and stopped moving and yelling.

“Boss?” he asked hesitantly, his chest still heaving.

“Right here, Harper,” Dylan replied, not letting go.

“It’s so dark, Boss.”

“I know, Harper.”

“Why did you put me in chains? Can’t you take them off?”

“Sorry, Harper, I can’t. I really wish I could, but I can’t.”

“Where’s Beka?” he asked after a moment.

“She’s not here right now. She asked me to take care of you.”

“She mad at me for getting so…messed up?”

“No, she’s not mad at you, Harper. She loves you very much and wants you to fight this so you can get better, okay?”

“Dylan, I don’t feel so good…”

*****

“Snakes! Crawling all over me! Get them off me! GET THEM OFF!” He brushed frantically at his clothing, trying to dislodge the swarming creatures that only he could see. “AHHH! Please, oh please, help me! Pleas-” 

He stopped as suddenly as if he’d been unplugged. His eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed boneless to the ground. 

Hands shook him. 

“He’s not breathing!” 

Fingers groped urgently for a pulse.

There was none to find.


	43. Chapter 42

**Chapter 42**  
 _The little toy dog is covered with dust,  
But sturdy and stanch he stands;  
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,  
And his musket moulds in his hands.  
Time was when the little toy dog was new,  
And the soldier was passing fair;  
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue  
Kissed them and put them there.   
"Now, don't you go till I come," he said,  
"And don't you make any noise!"  
So, toddling off to his trundle-bed,  
He dreamt of the pretty toys;  
And, as he was dreaming, an angel song  
Awakened our Little Boy Blue---  
Oh! the years are many, the years are long,  
But the little toy friends are true!   
Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,  
Each in the same old place---  
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,  
The smile of a little face;  
And they wonder, as waiting the long years through  
In the dust of that little chair,  
What has become of our Little Boy Blue,  
Since he kissed them and put them there._   
\- Eugene Field

*****

“He’s gone,” Simon said, gently closing the slave’s eyes.

Harper was mumbling incoherently now, strange things about doorknobs and sprinklers and purple fairy-dust. Dylan shoved him at Peter and hurried to where Simon was kneeling.

“Move!” he ordered quickly. “I’ve got basic first-aid training. Let me try and resuscitate him. I’m not gonna just let them kill him!” he said, arranging his hands.

“No, don’t,” Simon said quietly, carefully pulling Dylan’s hands back. “Just let him go. He’s free now; don’t bring him back to this.”

Dylan closed his eyes as he fought the urge to argue with his friend but finally nodded. He opened his eyes and studied the dead slave. The lamps in the barrack had burned out some time ago making it difficult to see, but his eyes had adjusted somewhat to the dark. It was hard, but he could still make out the slave’s features. Some people looked peaceful in death, but he just looked worn-out, used-up, cast-away. And he couldn’t have been over twenty years old.

Tenderly, Simon straightened the young man’s body and covered it with a blanket. “His name was Helam. He was seventeen and he liked reading. He missed his brother,” the Wayist said calmly, turning the nameless slave into a person in three short sentences. Simon then placed his hand on the slave’s forehead and bowed his own, falling silent for a few minutes. Out of respect, Dylan bowed his head as well and followed suit.

“Eternal life grant unto him, and may his journey be to a better place than here.” For several seconds he didn’t move, then he reached down and pulled the blanket up over the dead boy’s face. “Go and find peace, Helam.”

Dylan stared at the blanket covered shape, picturing Harper there instead. “Simon,” he choked out, “this has happened before, hasn’t it?”

The other man nodded.

“They’re all gonna die, aren’t they?” he breathed fearfully.

“I don’t know. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t.”

“What is all this for?” Dylan was angry. “The Uber betting pool?”

“The more suspicious of the slaves say it’s a curse: the more cynical call it thinning the crop… Personally, I just think the Nietzscheans use us as lab rats. It’s never the same thing, never the same group, and never the same numbers, although usually not this many. Judging by these poor souls, I’d say the criteria this time required youth and small stature.”

He was right about that. All four slaves were extremely young and none were taller than Harper.

“I think,” Simon continued after a while, “Helam died of a heart-attack. Or a stroke. His heart or his system in general just couldn’t put up with the strain. Perhaps, if we can keep the others relatively calm and still, we can save them? I’m no doctor, but it couldn’t possibly hurt.”

Dylan squinted through the darkness and looked around; looked at the slave on one end of the barrack trying to convince his friends to strip down and go swimming with him, looked at Twig rocking back and forth, sobs reduced to dry-heaves as his little body ran out of energy and moisture to support them, and finally looked at Harper who was making seductive overtures to Peter, whom he was calling Shandra. Dylan shook his head and rubbed his tired eyes. Keep them still and calm? Perhaps he could pull a rabbit out of his hat while he was at it as well.

“Okay, let’s do it. I’ll try anything at this point.”

Simon quickly went to help the friends of the other slave, and Dylan returned to the little group gathered on his and Harper’s pile of straw, his heart heavy and hope, like the morning, still far away.

*****

“Boss, ya gotta let me go! The walls are closing in! I’m gonna be trapped!” Harper squirmed in his grasp but Dylan held on firmly.

“No, Harper. The walls are staying right where they should be, and I need _you_ to just stay here and take deep breaths for me, okay? Just stay still and breathe.”

Harper’s body twitched restlessly in Dylan’s arms, but he didn’t try to get free again. “No moving walls?” he checked carefully.

“None. I promise.”

The boy breathed deeply and closed his eyes, obviously trying to do as Dylan asked. The captain was moved by the depth of his trust. He could tell the kid was still terrified, and yet he trusted his friend enough to try anyway. And so far, he was still alive. That was all that mattered.

Dylan leaned his head back against the rough, log wall of the barrack and closed his eyes for just a moment. He was tired, _oh so tired_. Even after grueling training sessions or special-ops missions gone wrong, he couldn’t remember ever being this tired…

…but he couldn’t sleep now. He forced his bleary eyes open again and tried to adjust his position without disturbing the friend who was cradled against his chest. Dylan’s legs had gone numb forever ago but he ignored them. Instead, he tried to get a more comforting hold on the young man and, for the millionth time, cursed the chains binding his wrists. Arrogant Ubers, taking even free movement away from them…

Thankfully, this time Harper remained still. It helped that the hours of insanity had drained what little strength this camp had left him with. His mind might still be tripping, but his body just physically couldn’t keep up anymore. 

Now, if Dylan could just keep him calm without letting his weakened body come down too fast. It was a very fine line to walk…

*****

“How’s he doing?” Simon asked, stopping by Dylan and Harper’s side. 

“Better, I think. He’s still in mental la-la land, but his body has finally agreed to just lay here while his mind floats,” the captain replied. “The others?”

Simon looked pale and drawn in the moonlight that lit the prison. Deep shadows under his eyes reminded Dylan that the man was ill himself and should be resting, not tending to others. “Zane’s about the same as Harper, although he’s started complaining of nausea, so I’d be prepared if I were you.”

“And Twig?” Dylan pushed.

Simon sighed. “Twig’s not doing so well…”

*****

“Come on, little guy, in an’ out…in an’ out… That’s right…”

Ethan rubbed the tiny, emaciated chest with his big, rough hand as he coaxed the boy to keep breathing, to take just one more breath. Peter sat beside them, holding the child’s fragile hand and trying to contain the anger that was burning through him.

The calmest of the four insane slaves right from the beginning, Twig had started to slip quickly downhill about an hour after Helam’s death. Now, as the time for the morning wake-up call approached, he was in serious trouble. His heart was pumping erratically, sometimes going too fast, sometimes skipping beats all together, and his breathing was shallow and labored, as if he could never quite drawn in enough air. The little slave lay on his back in Ethan’s lap, propped up against the big man’s chest to help ease his breathing. As he gasped frantically for each breath, his scared, pain-filled brown eyes bored straight into Peter’s.

The boy knew he was dying and was obviously terrified, unable to draw in enough air even to speak. 

It made Peter’s blood boil. He wanted to rant and rave and throw things at the wall, but a quiet look from Ethan reminded him that now was not the time. So instead, he held that frightened gaze and tried to keep the anger from his voice as he added his own whispered words of comfort to their little friend. 

And he never let on that he saw the small tears that leaked from the corners of Ethan’s eyes.

“We should get Dylan to bring Seamus over here,” Ethan finally whispered quietly to Peter. “Twig adores them and loves Seamus like a father. He should get to see them again…say goodbye…”

Peter glanced over at the pair and shook his head sadly. “Not gonna ‘appen,” he replied in a hushed voice. “Seamus ‘as started puking his guts up and Dylan’s got ‘is ‘ands full with him.”

Then suddenly everything else was forgotten as Twig’s heart skipped again. He let out a rattling sigh and lay still, eyes dropping closed. 

“No, ya don’t, Kid! I ain’t letting you die on me! You can’t spend your whole life here!” Ethan growled, frantically rubbing the boy’s chest. For a moment there was nothing, but then the tiny heart-beat sounded once more and finally Twig drew in a small, weak breath.

“Good boy! Now just keep it up. In an’ out…in an’ out…nice and steady…”

Ethan and Peter kept up the charade, rubbing comforting circles on the boy’s chest and offering encouraging words, all while they watched their small friend slip farther away with each shallow breath. 

*****

The morning whistle pierced the air and weary, sleep-deprived slaves began to stumble from their barracks as the bars were thrown open. In the darkness it was hard to tell, but some carried heavy bundles that they placed with resignation on the ground. Most of the bundles were unmoving.

One guard watched for several moments from the shadows, his face unreadable. Then he stepped forward.

“You,” he ordered, pointing to a lesser-ranked, fellow guard. “Go bring the slave doctor. Hurry!”

*****

“Report.”

Marcus snapped automatically to attention as he stood in front of the desk.

“The slaves are in the mines now, sir.”

“What was the final outcome of the project?” Adoniram asked, lacing his hands behind his head and leaning languidly back in his chair as he watched the young Nietzschean before him.

Marcus handed over a folder. “This time the sample population was chosen from those in the smallest weight category, as well as the younger end of the age range, those believed to be under thirty-five. The drug was administered to sixty-five test subjects.”

“Hmmm,” Adoniram said as he rifled through the contents of the folder. Then he looked up again. “Did it work as expected?”

“All subjects did reportedly have increased stamina and output in their work during the day, but the after-affects outweighed any benefits.”

“How many did we lose this time?”

“Forty-three didn’t make it, sir. We lost almost all of those under the age of twenty, and of the total slaves who did live, all but five are too ill to work.”

“Unfortunate results, but that happens,” he shook his head. “File your report and inform Dr.’s Negla and WoOlrik that the project has been suspended. They will have to find other means of increasing the output in the mines.”

“Yes, sir,” Marcus said, taking back the offered folder. 

“Incidentally,” Adoniram added, “what did you do with the sick ones?” 

“I ordered them taken to the hospital barrack where the Kludge doctor is attending to them.”

Adoniram looked up harshly. “Why?”

“I thought it would be more prudent to save those who can be saved, even if it requires the use of a few medical supplies and some days of rest, than to lose all the test subjects. We’re also low on slaves right now, the new batch not due for a few weeks yet, and it might be profitable to keep them around, if only to study the long-term results of the test.”

The Nietzschean captain was silent for a long time but finally nodded. “Fine. Just get them out of there and back to work as soon as possible, and make sure my soft-hearted slave knows he’s not to waste time and supplies on any that are too far gone.”

Marcus nodded. He turned to leave, but hesitated for a moment.

“Was there something else?” Adoniram asked, leaning forward.

“Permission to speak…”

“Yes, yes,” Adoniram waved his words carelessly away before he could finish them. “Just say it. What’s on your mind?”

“Why is it like this?” the younger Nietzschean asked. “Why must the slaves be so miserable? Isn’t it enough that we are superior and they are clearly not? Must they live and die in misery as well?”

Adoniram’s face hardened. “They’re slaves, animals, our property. What else would we do with them? You don’t set a place for your dog at the table and offer to let him dine with you, do you?”

“No,” Marcus agreed, but stepped forward intently, “but you don’t starve him either. And you don’t kick and hit and beat him if you want to get any kind of loyalty from him. Shouldn’t that rule apply to all animals? Wouldn’t the Kludges make better slaves if they weren’t always ill and injured from the treatment they receive from our own people? Wouldn’t they be able to work harder and have better results if they were actually fed, given clothes, allowed to rest once in a while? Better treatment would make them more loyal and less likely to –”

“Enough!” Adoniram roared, surging to his feet. “I won’t listen to any more of this kind of talk. We are Nietzscheans, superiors! They’re slaves! You disgust me with your weakness and concern for these inferior beings. It’s detrimental to your own survival and especially unbecoming from one of your status! I gave you this posting to weed that weakness out of you! Don’t make me regret it and withdraw the offer! Not many so young have been given so much authority!”

Something flashed through Marcus’s eyes for a moment, but he ducked his head and it was well hidden when he raised it again. “Yes, sir.”

“I expect more from you,” Adoniram continued, frowning at the young man. “Your actions are watched by all. Don’t disappoint me.”

“I apologize.” Marcus said crisply, a slight bite to his words. “And I will try harder, sir.” Bowing again, he withdrew from the room.

*****

The sound of light knocking on the door of his quarters drew Marcus’s head up from the paper he was studying on his desk.

“Come,” he called.

A tall, dark-skinned slave entered and bowed. The typical slave tag graced his left ear, but unlike most of the other slaves in the camp, he was dressed neatly in a clean, pressed uniform.

“Yes, my lord. You asked to see me?” The slave looked puzzled and a little fearful as he kept his posture submissive.

“Come in and close the door behind you,” Marcus ordered dismissively. He ignored the slave while he finished writing something on the paper, folded it neatly in thirds, and then placed it in a plain, unmarked envelope. Finally, he turned to the waiting servant.

“You’re going with your master on the annual slave gathering in a few days, are you not?” he said without introduction.

“Yes, my lord,” the man answered, nodding his head.

“You will spend time in the city?”

“Yes, my lord, we usually do.”

“Good. I have a task for you then.” Marcus held out the envelope and a small bag filled with something that rattled slightly. “While in the city, you will deliver these to a ship, any of the non-Nietzschean cargo ships that occasionally dock there to unload supplies. But it _must_ be a non-Nietzschean one, understand?”

Looking puzzled, the slave nodded his head as he took the offered items.

“You will direct the captain of the ship to see that this letter is delivered to the Commonwealth ship, _The Andromeda Ascendant_. The letter is to go to the _Andromeda’s_ commanding officer and no one else. The bag and its contents, however, are for the deliverer’s trouble. They may do with it as they wish.”

Again the slave nodded.

“Do this, without your master knowing, and I will reward you greatly, perhaps with your freedom. Fail and the punishment will be severe. Understand?”

“Yes, my lord,” the man whispered. He wondered what this was all about, but a lifetime of slavery had taught him not to think too much about what he was ordered to do. It was easier that way.

“If the cargo pilot asks, whom shall I say sent the letter, my lord?” he asked quietly as he backed toward the doorway.

“You will tell them Marcus Augustus out of Selena by Adoniram sent it,” Marcus replied coolly. “Now go attend to your duties. I am busy.”

“Yes, my lord.” The man bowed again and then the door closed with a small click.


	44. Chapter 43

**Author’s Note:** The pronouns in the quotes have been changed from “she” to “he” to better fit the story. No infringement on the author is intended.

**Chapter 43**

_I never dreamed of this sorrow.  
I never thought I’d have reason  
To lament.  
I hoped I’d never know heartbreak.  
How I wish I could change  
The way things went.  
I wanted nothing but goodness.  
I wanted reason to prevail.  
Not this bare emptiness.  
I wanted days of plenty._

\- Mindi Dickstein, _Little Women_  
(Subsequent quotes from the same source.)

*****

Hydroponics was dark and still. Flowers closed their petals in deference to the artificial night, and pre-programmed showers gently replenished life. On a bench in a corner, tucked purposefully out of sight, a lone figure sat, arms wrapped tightly around knees, still as stone…

…if stones could weep.

Trance didn’t bother to wipe away the small tears that trickled down her golden cheeks. She had come here to let them fall.

The dreams had returned, the strings had straightened, the fog had lifted again…her vision had cleared. She _knew._

She knew and her heart broke.

Sometimes she hated herself; what she was. Humans longed to have the universe revolve around them, but when it really did, the responsibility and knowledge could be crushing. Especially when you let your heart get involved in ways it had no right to…

She closed her eyes.

Life was so much simpler when she was younger…when she was purple. When she could bounce and sparkle and laugh without it being an act… When she could wrap her tail around the shoulders of her friends and not see the paths of pain and sorrow stretching out before them like ominous, lurking shadows that she had to let them pass through.

Growing up hadn’t diminished her love for her friends; it just made it hurt more. Hurt so badly that she let a small wall build up between them simply to protect herself; hurt so much that she tweaked things she had no business touching, pulled strings better left untouched to save them from what she could. 

But even she knew there were things too big to be messed with, strings too large to be pulled. Some things simply must be.

And just because she didn’t physically have a heart didn’t mean she couldn’t feel the pain of one breaking.

*****

The lighting in the _Maru’s_ common room was dim and subdued, casting the edges of the space into shadow. Flexi’s and data-pads littered the small table, cluttered around empty mugs and dirty dishes. In the midst of the mess, Beka Valentine sagged on one of the stools, one elbow planted in a semi-clear spot so she could brace her head on her hand. The other arm was held close to her side by a sling. Deep lines of weariness and worry etched her face, lacing across several dark bruises.

“Here.” Rommie entered carrying a hypo and a fresh cup of coffee. The mug she placed on the table and the hypo she injected into the other woman’s neck.

“Thanks,” Beka said, rolling her shoulders and grabbing for the offered beverage.

“That’s the last of the nano’s,” the android told her, settling on a stool across from her friend.

“We’ll have to pick some up at the next safe drift we go by.”

“Almost out of coffee, too,” Rommie added, watching her friend carefully.

“Definitely, have to stop at the drift,” the pilot said wryly. She straightened, the caffeine and nanobots flowing through her veins reviving her, and pulled one of the scattered flexi’s toward her. “I’ve been thinking. We’ve hit so many prisons and come up blank each time. Maybe they’re not in a prison. Maybe Felix has got them stashed away somewhere close by so he can get to them... I think we should –”

“Beka,” Rommie cut her off firmly. 

Beka glanced up at her friend, surprised at the harshness of her tone. “What?”

“Beka,” Rommie began again in a softer tone, “it’s time to stop. It’s time to let it go…”

“What?” Beka cried in horror, certain she’d heard wrong.

“We can’t do this anymore and you know it; we both know it.”

“Like heck I can’t do this anymore!” Beka cried, rising in anger. “Harper and Dylan are still out there, in the hands of that sadistic madman! I’m not stopping until I find them!”

“Beka, look at yourself,” Rommie said calmly. “You barely got off that last drift alive!” 

“I’ll be more careful. It was just a stupid mistake,” Beka defended.

“And what about the time before this, or the one before that? You’re tired, you’re worried, and you’re making too many “stupid” mistakes, Beka. I’ve patched you up more times than I want to count. You can’t keep going on like this or you’re going to kill yourself!”

“I’m not leaving them out there! I thought you felt the same way! It’s Dylan, your captain! It’s _Harper_!”

“I know,” Rommie said sadly, emotion flashing across her face, “and it’s tearing me apart inside, but I also know they wouldn’t want you to do this to yourself.”

The pilot sagged back onto the stool. “Rommie, I promised. I promised Harper I’d always keep him safe.”

“And you’ve done everything humanly possible and then some to keep that promise, Beka. He’d understand, I know it. It’s time to keep another promise…”

“ _The Andromeda_?”

“They need you; I need you. Without someone to fight for it, Dylan’s dream will crash and burn in this new Commonwealth. All that we’ve fought for and struggled for in the last three years will be gone. He trusted you with that dream, Beka. You’re my captain now, and as much as I would love to keep pulling apart the universe trying to find them, I also have a duty to keep you safe. More importantly, as your friend I can’t let you keep doing this. And I’m not sure it would do any good if we did.”

“Are you saying you think they’re dead?” Beka glared.

Rommie sighed. She walked around to stand right in front of her friend. “Beka, the chances were beyond slim when we started on this, and now…” She reached out and placed a hand on Beka’s uninjured arm. “Look, my head tells me they’re dead, but my heart tells me they’re still out there, somewhere. And I agree with my heart, but Beka, my heart tells me other things, too. Harper did a good job on it. It tells me that we may not ever find them, no matter how hard we search, and that we’re dishonoring their memory and what they stood for if we allow that to consume our lives. It also tells me that there are friends and a whole crew waiting on the _Andromeda_ who need a captain, and who need some sort of closure to all this. Sometimes we have to do what’s best for everyone… I think both Dylan and Harper would understand that.”

Beka slumped in defeat. “I don’t think I can…” 

Rommie threw protocol out the window and drew her friend into a comforting hug. “I’m not sure I can either, but we have to try. Somehow we have to put this behind us and move on, if only because that’s what they would want. And I never said we’d stop looking, or hoping, just that it’s time to…I guess you could say, regroup?”

Beka gave a muffled half-sob, half-snort into her shoulder and pulled away. “That was such a warship thing to say,” she said, shaking her head even as the tears continued to stream down her cheeks. She breathed deeply, trying to gather her emotions. “I don’t know, Rommie,” she finally said. “To just leave them out there… I know what he did to Harper the first time around, I can’t…” A sob broke out again just as the _Maru’s_ computer announced an incoming message.

“I’ll get it,” Rommie said, giving Beka’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. 

The blonde woman nodded, slouching back at the table over her cold coffee. She pushed her thoughts purposefully away from images of Harper suffering and let it drift far away, back to the old days on the _Maru_ , back to the odd-ball engineer she picked up unexpectedly from a wasted slave planet… She pictured the gravity-defying hair, the quirky grin, the ages-old eyes… She heard his voice singing, echoing off the walls of her small ship… Saw the mess that somehow managed to overflow and follow him like a plague…

And now she tried to imagine how she could force herself to say a final good-bye to that engineer, her best friend…her little brother. What could she say to express the years of memories? And _how_ could she ever say it?

She was so lost in thought she actually jumped when Rommie reentered the room.

“The _Andromeda_?” Beka asked, knowing Rommie would understand the succinct question.

Rommie nodded. “It was from Trance.”

“What did it say?”

Rommie paused for a moment as if hesitating, then shrugged her shoulders. “It said… _come home_.”

*****

Beka sat at the desk in Dy-, _her_ office and stared at the flexi. Stared and stared and stared. 

Just like she’d been doing for the last two hours.

Her finger hovered over the button, then pulled away, hovered again, then shrank back…

Finally, she sucked in a deep breath and closed her eyes briefly before opening them and gently pushing the little square. 

The flexi blinked out and then returned, the information on the screen changed: _Captain E. Dylan Hunt and Lieutenant Seamus Z. Harper - officially MIA, presumed dead._

*****

“…and so the time has come to honor a life of noble service with one final salute. Captain Dylan Hunt was the best the Commonwealth has to offer, a statement that holds true both now and three-hundred years in the past.”

Rommie was speaking slowly and deliberately. The rows of crew assembled at attention before her thought it was a nod to the solemnity of the occasion, but those who really knew her could tell she was fighting back strong emotions. 

“… Dylan Hunt _was_ the New Commonwealth. It was his dream that built it from scratch, that battled the universe to pull some goodness back out of it, and it is that dream that we honor now by continuing the fight where he left off.”

Andromeda’s two other personifications flanked their avatar as she spoke from the pulpit, unmoving and at attention. On either side of them Trance and Beka stood, one visibly fighting for composure, the other a blank mask of hidden emotions. And bringing up the honor guard on the far right was Tyr, planted firmly and surprisingly dressed in full Kodiak splendor – his unspoken tribute of admiration and respect.

Rommie’s voice broke over her words and she stopped for a moment. After a nanosecond of thought, she filed the rest of her prepared speech away. “Dylan Hunt was more than my captain, he was my friend. I served him longer than I have served any other captain…” She smiled briefly as tears started to flow. “Three-hundred years is a heck of a long time to serve with one man. You get to know him fairly well. While it is important that we honor Dylan Hunt the Captain here today, I think it is more important that we honor Dylan Hunt the man, the son, the friend…”

*****

_But I refuse to feel tragic.  
I am aching for more than  
Pain and grief._

*****

“…Seamus Harper was annoying. He was brash, and flippant, and uncouth. He could dig a hole with his mouth faster than most people could with a blast-drill, and then fill it in a flash with his own little mudfoot feet. But he was also smart, and funny, and loyal beyond belief to his friends and his heart. He was only a ragged kid when I picked him up, but he has this annoying ability to grow on you. He was family, my brother in any sense of the word that matters… And I will remember him for that; for his incredible ability to smile through life after everything it had dumped on him…”

*****

_There has got to be meaning.  
Most of all when a life  
Has been so brief._

*****

“…Dylan Hunt was…optimistic. He bent the universe to his will; I admire that. And Harper…Harper was a survivor. He made me laugh.” Tyr straightened and stuck his chin and chest out. Looking straight above the heads of all, he pounded his fist to his chest then threw his hand out in his own unique symbol of respect. “They have benefited my survival. I salute them.”

*****

_I have got to learn something.  
How can I give him any less?_

*****

“…and so we gather to say goodbye for now to our friends, Dylan and Harper,” Trance said quietly, her eyes shimmering as she held two roses before the open, empty cargo pod. “Go, and find peace wherever you are. We will meet again someday.”

*****

_I want life to go on.  
I want days of plenty._

*****

Silently, Dylan ate the hard, dry bread and runny, grey gruel that constituted supper. He sat by himself and he had never in his life felt more alone. He picked at his food, his mind a million miles away with a quirky engineer and a solemn-eyed little boy.

 _Two days_ … It had been two days since the Ubers had taken the dying away. Two days and none had returned.

A deep despair had settled over him, as deep as any he’d ever known. He couldn’t help believing that Harper and Twig were dead; that he’d failed them. They had fought so hard to survive that horrible night and it had been for nothing. For all he knew, they’d been hauled away and shot since they were too sick and weak to work. An agony of grief and hopelessness filled him, and he closed his eyes. He could only hope it had been quick and painless and happened while they were both too out of it to know what was going on.

 _Who was he kidding?_ He wished it hadn’t happened at all! Wished this whole place had never existed! Wished he could rewind time and refuse to go on that cursed mission, stop this nightmare from ever happening!

Tears of rage filled his eyes, blinding him. The anger welled up inside, mixing with grief and despair and refusing to go away. With a growl of unmitigated fury, he threw his dishes as hard as he could at the outside wall of the barrack. They hit with a dull clang and fell to the dust, undamaged, and then lay there, mocking his helplessness.

The rage drained as quickly as it had come, leaving him empty and deflated. He let his head sink forward into his hands.

The truth was that more than anything, he just wished the two boys were there, beside him, helping him laugh through his pain and think of better days. It wasn’t fair! After everything they’d suffered and survived for it to end with a calloused shot to the… 

He swallowed, unable to finish the sentence, even in his mind. It just wasn’t fair! They should be alive, not dumped unceremoniously in some un-marked, mass grave!

How could they do that to them!

How could they do that to _him_?  
.  
.  
.  
.

Why did they leave him so alone?

*****

_So believe that he mattered  
And believe that he always will.  
He will always be with you.  
He’ll be part of the days  
You’ve yet to fill.  
He will live in your bounty.  
He will live as you  
Carry on your life.  
So carry on, full of hope,  
He’ll be there  
For all your days of plenty._

 

**END of PART 3**


	45. Chapter 44

**Chapter 44**

_"Hope" is the thing with feathers_   
_That perches in the soul_   
_And sings the tune without the words_   
_And never stops at all,_

_And sweetest in the gale is heard;_   
_And sore must be the storm_   
_That could abash the little bird_   
_That kept so many warm._

_I've heard it in the chillest land_   
_And on the strangest sea,_   
_Yet never, in extremity,_   
_It asked a crumb of me._

\- Emily Dickenson

*****

Gradually, Harper became aware of the world again. Sounds filtered in and displaced the fogginess of drugged sleep. The engineer didn’t bother to open his eyes as he lay perfectly still, trying to get his fuzzy brain up to speed.

The first thing he noticed was the smell; or more appropriately, the lack thereof. The stench of the camp and barrack were missing; even the rancid odor of his own body had diminished.

The next thing that struck him was that something warm covered him, and what he was laying on was almost soft. Curious, his fingers traced the unthinkable item: a _mattress_! Thin, worn, a bit scratchy, but a mattress nonetheless.

His eyes popped open in amazement only to meet the anticipated darkness.

“So, you finally decided to come back to us. It’s good to see those baby blues again.”

The voice came from above him and to his right. Out of habit, he swiveled his head toward it. “Did I die? Is this Heaven?” he croaked hoarsely.

There was a short, mirthless laugh. “Hardly,” the voice said. The engineer felt a hand slide gently under his head and lift it up to meet the metal cup that touched his lips. Grateful, he drank the offered sips of tepid water, letting it sooth his parched throat. “You’re still in the slave camp,” the voice finished as his head was carefully lowered back down.

“But I’m warm…and it’s soft,” Harper insisted in confusion.

The other slave chuckled for real this time. “If you can call these old rejects soft, Mr. Harper…”

“Doc Barty?” Harper asked hesitantly, having finally placed the voice as belonging to the kindly, old doctor who had helped him on the long march to the camp.

“Yes, son, it’s me.”

“Where am I? What happened?”

“You’re in the hospital barrack. You reacted badly to a test drug you were given.”

“Ah, hence the killer hangover,” Harper muttered. He remembered the injection now, the terror and fear of the unknown that went with it. It was just everything after that point that was missing from his memory.

“Be thankful that’s all you have,” Dr. Bartholomew Kesler said solemnly. “You’re one of the lucky ones; most of the other slaves died.”

That sobered the engineer quickly. “Crap,” he cursed quietly, running a hand over his hairless head. “Lousy Ubers…”

“Hush,” the doctor warned. “You’re not as unobserved here as you’re used to being in your barrack. I just put you back together; I’m not anxious to see them undo all my hard work.”

“Sorry, Doc,” Harper said quietly, now wondering who else was in the room that he couldn’t see. He rubbed his aching forehead and as he did, something tugged against the back of his hand. His face wrinkled in confusion and fear.

“Don’t pull on it, son,” Dr. Kesler admonished, replacing the young man’s hand at his side. “It’s just an IV, nothing harmful I promise.”

While the doctor was talking, Harper had made another observation. His arms were moving freely and independently. Marveling at the sensation, he carefully stretched them a bit. Out of curiosity he wriggled his feet as well and heard the familiar clank of metal.

“Your leg and waist irons are still there,” the other slave explained sadly, “and the others will be returned soon, but I couldn’t have you injuring yourself more with those horrible chains while you were thrashing around.” Harper felt a light touch to his wrist and realized they were bandaged. “Your wrists are really a mess after so many months of the chains rubbing and then what you put them through these last few days. I did what I could.”

“I’m clean, too,” Harper marveled.

“Cleaner,” the slave doctor qualified. “I only gave you a sponge bath, and I couldn’t do much for your clothes.”

Harper didn’t care. It was more than anyone had done for him in months and way more than he’d dreamed of. “Thanks, Doc,” he said sincerely.

The doctor gently squeezed his good hand. “Now, how are you feeling?”

“Like death warmed over,” he admitted.

“An apt assessment considering how close you came to it, but then I should have known you’d fight through. After all, you’ve survived everything else. Believe it or not, you’re actually looking much better than you did. Now, the question is, do you feel like you could get up for a bit, son?”

“Let me guess,” Harper sighed wearily. “You have to kick me out now and it’s back to the trenches…” With resignation, he held out his wrists.

“Tomorrow or the next day, yes,” Dr. Kesler acknowledged sadly, “but not today. Today you’re still my patient and that means no chains for now,” the man said kindly, pushing his hands back down. “No, the reason I asked was entirely different. There’s someone here who’d probably like to see you and could really use the encouragement to hang in there…”

“Dylan?” Harper asked, suddenly worried and trying to rise. He couldn’t remember if the captain had received the shot as well; it was all too fuzzy.

“Dylan was not among those brought to me,” the doctor said, “but he’s probably fine. I think he’s too old to have been included in the test. No, it’s a little fellow, youngest in the camp, goes by the name Twig… He’s been calling for you.”

“Twig?” the engineer exclaimed. “They did this to Twig, too?” The anger was hardly hidden from his voice as he tried to sit up again.

“Mr. Harper…” Bartholomew warned pointedly, forcing the engineer to move more slowly and, once he was sitting, helping him swing his legs and chains to the side of the mattress. It was only then that Harper realized the mattress was simply lying on the ground, and Dr. Kesler had been sitting on the floor at his side.

“Sorry,” Harper said again, catching the warning and clamping his lips shut, but his face still showed his anger. “Is he all right? Is he gonna make it?”

“Let me help you up and I’ll take you to him. We can move your mattress next to his if we can just get you there,” the older slave said. Harper knew he purposely avoided answering the questions which scared him even more.

Slowly, the doctor pulled the young man up. Harper swayed slightly on his feet and would have fallen right back down if the other man hadn’t been there. It surprised him how weak he felt, and he missed the warmth of the blanket and mattress as the cool air hit his naked chest. He touched his bare skin hesitantly.

“Where’s my shirt?”

Dr. Kesler snorted. “That rag can hardly be termed fabric anymore let alone an article of clothing,” he said darkly. “But,” he added in a more normal voice, “it’s still here. I just removed it while I was tending to you.” As he spoke, Harper felt the doctor wrap the blanket around his shoulders and draw it closed, placing his crippled hand in the center to hold it in place. “There, that should keep you warmer than your shirt ever could.”

Finally upright and mostly standing on his own, Harper then felt the doctor press a pole of some sort into his right hand.

“Hold onto that for me while I help you navigate, okay? It’s your IV pole and it needs to come with us.”

Harper nodded and grasped it tightly, the effort of standing taking more energy than he’d anticipated. The doctor took him gently by the left elbow with one hand and lifted his chains with the other so he wouldn’t trip, then urged him forward.

“Seriously, Doc, what’s up with Twig? I gotta know,” Harper asked between breaths as the other slave led him on a twisty-turny path through obstacles he couldn’t see. He heard the doctor sigh.

“Honestly, I don’t really know. I hardly have the equipment to make a real medical diagnosis, and even if I did, the Nietzscheans would never let me use it to treat slaves. I might as well rub sticks together and chant prayers to totem poles as claim what I do here is actual medicine. Bandaging, stitches, a few antibiotics and drugs, small doses of nanobots, the occasional fluid injection…that’s about all I am allowed to do.”

“But you have to have some idea what’s wrong with him, don’t you?” Harper urged.

“The drug taxed his system to the breaking point, and his heart and lungs have been terribly strained, far more than they should be. It’s taken its toll. As far as I know, he’s the youngest slave in the camp and has been for a long time. His little body just couldn’t handle what they gave him. He’s very lucky, though; he’s weak and listless, but still hanging in there. Of those that were given the drug, all the others even close to his age died. It’s actually only the diligence and encouragement of his friends that kept him alive at all. That, and I think, a strong devotion to you… You gave him something worth living for; something the other children simply didn’t have.”

Harper felt his cheeks flush a little and it wasn’t from fever. “But he’ll get better, right?”

“We’ll have to wait and see…”

The doctor pulled Harper to a stop, and the engineer felt him brush something aside. A curtain, he realized a moment later.

“I’ve put him down here on the end where he can be by himself and hopefully rest. I know he’s seen far too many horrors in his few years already and is accustomed to life here, but I didn’t think he needed the added distress of watching the rest of you either fight off or succumb to the drug around him.”

That simple, caring act made Harper remember that in a former life, one far removed from the terrors of this awful place, Dr. Kesler had been a pediatrician. Given the circumstances, Twig was in the best hands he could be in.

“Thanks, Doc,” Harper said. The other man lightly squeezed his arm and then led him forward again.

“He’s on a mattress just to your right,” the older man offered, lowering his voice. “He’s dozing right now but you’re free to wake him. He’s been calling for you constantly, and occasionally even your friend, Dylan Hunt. Just seeing you will probably do him more good than anything I have to give him. Here, let me help you sit on the floor and arrange the IV; then I’ll go back for your mattress.”

Weary from even that short walk across the barrack and his head pounding, Harper sank gratefully to the ground, chains pooling in his lap. The good doctor fussed around him for a moment, fixing the blanket about his shoulders and straightening the IV cord, warning him not to use his good hand too much or he’d pull out the needle. Then he gently took his crippled hand and placed it on the edge of Twig’s mattress.

“Be aware if you try to touch him that he has an IV in his right hand just like you. Took me ages to convince him not to be scared of it; I don’t want to have to put it back in.”

Harper nodded. A few seconds later he heard the doctor leave and the faint swoosh of the curtain falling closed behind him. For a moment, he stayed absolutely still, afraid to speak or maybe unsure of what to say. He simply listened – listened until he heard the tiny wisp of air that assured him Twig really was breathing, really was still alive. It surprised and alarmed him how attached he’d become to this random, ragged child. It brought back long buried memories as well; memories he both welcomed and deplored at the same time…memories of other times he’d sat by the edge of a small bed, coaxing, hoping, praying…

“Harper?”

The weak voice snatched Harper back from his thoughts. He realized Twig must have woken up while he was just sitting there.

“Hey, there buddy. Doc said ya wanted to see me,” he said gently, turning his head in the direction the voice had come from.

“Yeah.”

“How you feeling?” Harper asked, searching carefully with his fingers until he found the child’s hand and slipped it into his. Desperately, Harper wished for his eyes so that he could look the kid over for himself, draw his own answers to that question.

There was silence for a while. “I hurt,” Twig finally admitted in a scared voice, taking their joined hands and lightly placing them on his chest. “Right here…”

Harper tried to keep his heart from shattering. “I’m sorry, Twig,” he said softly.

Harper suddenly felt small fingers rub across the back of his hand where the IV was stuck. “You’re sick, too?” the little boy said as though just noticing it.

“Just a little,” Harper replied, even though he actually felt rather horrid. “But don’t worry about me. You just worry about getting better, okay?”

Silence followed again and Harper figured Twig must have nodded.

“The man let me use this blanket,” Twig randomly broke the stillness after a while. “It’s soft.”

“Yeah, they’re nice, aren’t they?” Harper smiled, fingering his own blanket.

“Wish I could keep it…” the child’s voice was wistful.

“I wish you could, too,” Harper whispered.

“Am I gonna die?” Twig asked suddenly, his voice very quiet. Caught off guard, Harper sucked in his breath sharply before replying.

“Of course you’re not gonna die. Doc Barty here’s gonna patch you up good as new.”

“Everyone dies here,” the boy returned matter-of-factly. “Simon says when you die you go to Heaven. Where’s that? Is it like here?”

Harper felt slightly panicked. He was NOT good at this kind of thing! This was Rev’s department, or Trance’s, or even Dylan’s; not his!

“Heaven da-…um, darn well better not be like here or I’ll petition to go to the hot place,” Harper groused under his breath.

“What?” he heard Twig ask in confusion. He sighed and reigned in his mouth, but found he still didn’t know what to say to the kid. All joking and his earlier confused comment aside, the engineer wasn’t even sure he believed in Heaven, let alone knew how to explain it to an abandoned little boy. In desperation, he fell back on a source from a long time ago.

“My Nana use to say that Heaven was all around us, but just hidden from us so we couldn’t see it. And it’s just the opposite of the ugly, horrible world we see. It’s beautiful and lovely and full of all the people we love and miss, just waiting to meet us there…” Harper’s voice took on a faraway quality as he spoke, and he sort of lost himself in thoughts he hadn’t allowed to surface for years until the weak voice broke in again.

“But what if there’s no one to meet you? What if no one remembers you? Or no one wants you? Can you still go there?”

Now Harper’s heart really _did_ crumble. At least with all the crap life had thrown at him, he’d always had someone who wanted him, even if they were sitting on the other side, strumming harps or flapping their wings or doing whatever it was people did there. To think this child thought he’d be alone, even in Heaven, was too much for Harper.

“Twig, I’ll make you a deal. When the time comes, a _long_ time from now I might add, for you to go to Heaven, if no one steps up for ya, I’ll put out the word for my Nana to meet you, just to show ya around and such. How does that sound?”

“Okay,” Twig answered. He sounded tired.

“But I don’t wanna hear any more talk about dying now, okay? Rest now… You’re gonna be just fine.”

The mattress rustled and Harper realized the boy had nodded again. He was too exhausted and in too much pain to remember Harper couldn’t see it.

“Will you tell me more about Jack?” the little slave asked softly.

“Sure,” Harper replied, hiding a yawn and ignoring the pounding in his head. “Did I tell you about the time Jack found a magic lamp? No? _Hot dog_ , you’ll like this one. Anyway, one day…”

He made it all the way to the part where Jack ended up in the Sultan’s harem before Doc Barty interrupted, bringing his mattress.

“I didn’t want to intrude before,” he explained, “but I figured this child was going to learn things no eleven year old should know about if I let you ramble on much longer.” He laughed softly and leaned down to whisper in Harper’s ear. “Besides, he’s been asleep for about ten minutes.”

“Oh,” Harper shrugged. “I thought he might be, but I couldn’t tell.” A huge yawn split his own face.

“And it looks like it’s nap time for little engineers as well,” the doctor said.

“ _Ex_ -engineers,” Harper qualified tiredly.

“The title doesn’t matter; resting does,” Dr. Kesler replied firmly, moving him and all his accessories onto the mattress and covering him once more.

“Yeah, gotta go back to work tomorrow, right?” Harper replied wearily.

“Actually, no. I got permission to keep you here a few more days. Don’t ask how,” he cut off the anticipated question. “You don’t need the details. Just know that you’re officially still my patient. Unfortunately, the chains go back on tomorrow, though, so enjoy that while you can.”

“Figures,” Harper muttered, too tired to process his good fortune, but he fought off sleep for a few moments more. “Seriously, Doc, you think he’s gonna make it?” he whispered, gesturing toward Twig.

“I honestly don’t know. It could go either way, and even if he does pull through, there will be lasting complications from this. But you being here with him certainly tips the scales a bit more in his favor,” the doctor whispered back gently. “We’ll do all we can, both of us, and then leave the rest in God’s hands.”

“He’d better not drop the ball,” Harper mumbled as his eyes slid closed. “He owes me big time… Never reads His complaint box…”

The doctor smiled, a sad smile full of years of grief and helplessness, and tucked the blanket around the young man’s shoulders, watching his wasted chest rise and fall with sleep.

“He owes a lot of us, Mr. Harper.”

*****

The hours of the day dragged by with immeasurable slowness now that Dylan had no one to endure them with. Sure, Simon and the others in the small circle of friends he’d developed tried to help, but it just wasn’t the same and they were mourning their lost friends as well. The adage “you don’t know what you have until it’s gone” spun through his head, accusing him. It was true, though. Yes, he’d always considered Harper a friend, but he didn’t realize how close he’d become to the boy, how much the young engineer had come to mean to him, until it was too late. Twig, too. The wide-eyed, little child with his eager grin and insatiable curiosity had skillfully wormed his way into the captain’s heart…and all for nothing.

Numbly, Dylan went through the motions that constituted his life now, his body on auto-pilot and his mind withdrawing behind emotional barricades. Even escape held no real appeal anymore. It would only prove how much he’d failed when he returned without his crewmate and friend.

And then, four days after the dead and dying were taken away, hope sparked through his heart once more. Rumors ran through the camp, spreading like fire. Four of those who’d been taken away and presumed dead had returned, people whispered. And there were others, still too sick to leave the hospital barrack, but getting better…

Like a drowning man, Dylan latched onto those whispers and clung to them as a life-preserver. Maybe, just maybe, his young friends were still alive? Maybe there was still hope?

 

P.S. If anyone out there is reading this, I'd love to know what you think.


	46. Chapter 45

**Chapter 45**

_Rock-a-bye baby, in the treetop.  
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.  
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall…  
And down will come baby, cradle and all._

\- Nursery Rhyme

*****

Harper lay on his mattress and listened to the sounds around him. It’s not like he had anything else to do, or the energy to do it for that matter. Just the simple act of walking to this spot the day before had left him totally exhausted. It scared him to realize how far his health had slipped in the months he’d been locked in this prison. He was weak as a kitten and there was nothing he could do about it. Not that he’d ever exactly been the healthy type, but still… To know you were wasting away, one day at a time, and to also know there was nothing you could do to stop it…it was maddening!

Out of frustration, he forced his thoughts away from his own physical condition and continued listening. Small moans and cries, muffled conversations, light snores…they all filtered back to him. The curtain the doctor kept stretched across their little corner partially blocked the sounds, but Harper’s ears had grown used to replacing his eyes and picked them up anyway, reminding him that the barrack was full of others who probably felt just as rotten as he did. 

And one of those who was suffering the most lay right beside him. Try as he might, Harper couldn’t block out the sounds of Twig’s harsh, labored breathing, couldn’t stop listening to the boy cry and moan in his sleep from the pain. It made him furious. Furious at the genetically enhanced jerk-offs who thought they had the right to do this to other people! Furious at the universe or cosmic power or whatever that had trapped them here! And furious at himself for being so utterly powerless to help.

Weakly, he reached out with his crippled hand and felt around carefully until he found Twig’s little one. The child was struggling painfully to breathe – his sleep fitful and his moments of lucidity less and less.

“Hey, there,” Harper tried to sooth, willing his bad hand to tighten just a little around the boy’s. “Sh, it’s okay. Just breathe. You’re gonna be all right…”

Hating his darkness more than ever, Harper focused his ears to try and detect any changes in his young friend’s condition, but the only thing he heard was the labored breathing continue. Finally, he couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Doc?” he called as loudly as he dared. He knew the man probably had more than he could handle on his plate right now and hated to be a bother, but it’s not like he could wait and flag him down when he wasn’t busy. 

He waited several minutes but no one came. “Doc Barty?” he tried again, a little louder.

Finally, he heard footsteps and the curtain rustled as it was pushed aside.

“Sorry, son. I heard you but I couldn’t come right then,” the slave doctor’s hushed voice drifted down to the engineer. “What do you need, Mr. Harper?”

“It’s Twig,” Harper whispered, gesturing blindly toward the fretful child. “Can’t you do anything else for him?” he begged. “He’s fighting so hard!”

The doctor sighed and Harper heard him sink down to a crouch in the space between their two mattresses. Small sounds told him the other man was fussing over Twig, so Harper waited silently. 

“He’s still hanging in there, but he’s not getting any better,” Dr. Kesler admitted sadly after several minutes. He sounded weary and defeated. “Son, I’ve done everything I’m allowed to do for him.”

“But we can’t just let him die!” Harper insisted, struggling to rise and fighting against his own nausea. There was anger in his voice again and he didn’t care if the Ubers heard him or not. 

A kind hand touched the center of his chest and gently pushed him back down. “Sometimes, Mr. Harper, as much as it kills me, that’s all I can do.”

“Doc, he’s a baby!” Harper begged again, feeling more helpless than ever. “Please help him? Give him my stuff if it will help!” he cried, waving the hand with the IV still attached. 

The doctor caught his hand and carefully stilled it. Then the other slave sighed again, and to Harper it sounded like he was running hands through his hair. “I’ll be back,” he finally whispered. “Stay still and rest,” he added sternly and then left without offering anything else.

Waiting had never been Harper’s forte. By nature, he just wasn’t a very patient guy. But waiting in the dark, in an Uber slave camp, for a doctor he was pretty sure was breaking several dozen rules to get something to save a dying little kid was pure torture. He strained his ears to the breaking point, listening for sounds of trouble. Every footstep, every muffled whisper put him on edge. Then Twig stirred beside him and all other thoughts disappeared when he felt the small hand he was loosely holding close instinctively around his own crippled one. It hurt but Harper didn’t care.

“Twig?” he asked quietly, wondering if he’d get an answer this time.

There was silence for a long time and Harper thought the boy was probably still out of it, but then a quiet voice finally reached him. “When I die, will it stop hurting?” the child asked softly.

The engineer closed his eyes tightly and sucked in his breath. That question was a little too close to home right now and he desperately wanted to ignore it, but he also found he couldn’t lie to the little guy.

“Yeah, Twig,” he finally answered. “I think when we die, all the hurting goes away.”

The boy was quiet again for a long while and Harper figured he had drifted back to sleep, but he hadn’t.

“I want to die then,” he said suddenly, a sob breaking his voice.

The words ripped through Harper’s gut, more agonizing than any physical injury he’d ever received. Ignoring the doctor’s orders, he struggled to a sitting position and scooted over right next to Twig.

“Twig!” he whispered desperately, searching carefully with his hands for the child, “Don’t say that, please.”

“But it hurts so bad!”

“I know,” Harper said, his sightless eyes tearing slightly, “but you gotta hold on, okay? Please?” He finally found the boy’s shoulder and used it as a guide to move around behind him. As best he could, he pulled the little boy into his lap, ignoring the tug of the IV on the back of his hand. With his hands still unchained, this was the first time he’d been able to properly hold the kid since he arrived in the camp…well as properly as his crippled hands and his own illness would permit.

Twig didn’t protest the change in positions…in fact it actually seemed to help ease his breathing slightly. He just let Harper hold him while small tears of pain and fear rolled down his cheeks and onto the engineer’s arms.

“Sometimes,” Twig breathed in a wispy, weak voice as Harper lightly rocked him, “I dream I’m in a nice place. It looks like here only it’s clean and warm and bright and our barrack is nice. There’s no Ubers there.”

His version of Heaven, Harper thought as he found the boy’s hand again and slipped it into his own good one, squeezing gently. It saddened him to realize Twig’s idea of the afterlife was still confined to the slave camp. A cleaned-up, pretty version of the camp, but the slave camp nonetheless. It was all he knew.

“Sometimes there’s this lady there and three girls. I don’t know who they are, but I feel like I should. They seem happy to see me and want me to stay with them.”

The effort of speaking left him gasping slightly for air and Harper tried to shush him, worried it was causing more damage, but Twig wouldn’t stop. “Maybe, if I die, I could remember who they are?”

Harper closed his eyes again but couldn’t stop the few drops of salty liquid that leaked out and ran down his cheeks anyway. The more Twig talked, the more the young man realized how desperately he needed this little boy. Not since Earth had he let someone get so firmly etched into his heart, not even Beka. Beka was family, as close as they come, but their relationship was different. He needed Beka more than Beka needed him; but Twig…Twig…it was like Twig was his own. Someone who looked up to him for a change, instead of the other way around. Someone who actually needed him and saw him when he was at his very worst and didn’t care. In Twig he had a second chance, a chance to atone for sins committed years ago. He wasn’t going to fail again.

“Twig,” he said softly, opening his eyes even though it made no difference, “if they love you as much as I think they do, they’ll understand if you wait a while to go meet them. I think they’d want you to stay alive. I know I do,” he added quietly.

The only answer Harper got was a small, pain-filled sob. He pulled the little boy closer and kept rocking, wishing with all his heart he could do more even as he couldn’t help but acknowledge that he really didn’t feel very good himself.

Eventually, Twig’s sobs died out and Harper could tell the boy was asleep again. He kept one hand at the child’s wrist, needing the comfort of feeling the shallow pulse. After a while, though, his own body gave into exhaustion and sickness and sleep claimed him too, his head falling back against the barrack wall where he sat with Twig still in his lap. 

As a result, he had no idea how much time had passed when he was startled awake by a hand touching his shoulder. He gasped and instinctively jerked away.

“Sh, it’s only me, son,” Dr. Kesler’s voice penetrated Harper’s groggy mind and he relaxed slightly. “What part of rest and stay still did you not understand?” the doctor continued wearily, the annoyance at his patient clear in his voice. Harper felt him check his IV line and then heard him sigh heavily. “You’ve managed to make quite a mess out of this, young man.”

Harper had the good grace to duck his head, chagrined, but didn’t give up his hold on Twig. “Sorry, Doc,” he whispered, “but Twig needed me.”

“And what good will you be to him if you don’t take care of yourself while you actually have the chance?”

“It won’t matter much if he doesn’t make it anyway, will it?” Harper shot back, harsher than he intended, then flinched at his own words. “Sorry, Doc,” he said again, hanging his head. “I know you’re just as stuck as the rest of us here,” he added with defeat. “You’ve done your best.”

“Let’s just hope my best is enough and that we all live through it…” the doctor muttered. Something in his voice caught Harper’s attention, and he cocked his head to one side.

“Doc?” he questioned.

“I stole an extra dose of nanobots,” the other slave leaned forward and whispered right in Harper’s ear. “In a normal hospital, it would be hardly worth mentioning, but here, even this amount is kept on record. I just hope in all the chaos of the last week, it will go unnoticed. Anyway, it’s hardly a dose at all, but if applied directly, like I did with your hand, it might help stabilize the boy’s heart.” 

Harper felt hope flash through him even as his breathing sped up at the thought of the increased danger they were suddenly in. “Will it cure him?” he asked in a careful whisper.

“Cure him? No. Keep him alive, maybe. Anyway, it’s all we have, so…” He changed thoughts. “Since you’re already over here, I need you to hold him still. He’s out of it again right now, but that might change shortly. Nanobots are not normally applied so directly to such a vital organ, and he’ll probably feel several minutes of sharply increased pain before they settle in and begin to go to work. If he cries out, it might attract unwanted attention…”

That alarmed Harper. “Will it hurt him, you know, make him worse?” he asked.

The doctor sighed. He did that a lot. “I won’t lie to you. This is not a procedure I would try in anything approaching normal circumstances. And especially not to someone as young and frail as Twig is, but at the same time, it’s the only thing I think has any chance of saving him, if it works. I wouldn’t have risked us all to get the nanos if I didn’t think it was worth the chance.”

Still worried, but trusting the doctor’s decisions, Harper nodded that he understood and carefully wrapped his crippled arm around Twig’s shoulders while his good hand tightened on the boy’s hand. “Ready.”

“I’m injecting him now,” Dr. Kesler whispered and Harper’s sensitive ears heard the doctor pull down the neck of Twig’s ragged shirt and then caught the small hiss from the injector. Instantly, Twig breathed harshly and tensed in his hold, a whimper escaping.

“Sh, Twig,” Harper soothed for the hundredth time that day, squeezing his hand as the boy started to struggle, “it’s okay. I know it hurts but you’re gonna be okay, just hang on a little longer…”

The whimpers threatened to turn to wails and Harper felt panic begin building. “Come on little guy,” he begged, knowing instinctively that his friend was awake now and afraid he wouldn’t be able to keep him quiet. “Just wait it out a little longer!” The engineer knew he was too weak himself to keep hold of the youngster if he fought much harder. The doctor seemed to realize this as well. Harper felt him settle on the mattress next to them and place his hands gently on Twig’s arms, restraining him and offering comfort at the same time. Together, they helped him ride out the next few minutes of intense pain and kept him from making any more noise than was usual. Finally, his body went slack and his struggles ceased.


	47. Chapter 46

**Chapter 46**

_The best that we can do is to be kindly and helpful toward our friends and fellow passengers who are clinging to the same speck of dirt while we are drifting side by side to our common doom._

\- Clarence Darrow

*****

Scrambling in the dark for a pulse, Harper brought his head up sharply in the doctor’s direction. “Is he –?”

“No,” Dr. Kesler cut him off before he could finish the sentence. “He’s resting now. The nanos are doing their job.”

Harper breathed a huge sigh of relief, but it was short-lived. His over-sensitive ears had picked up the sound of heavy footsteps approaching.

“Doc,” he whispered urgently as he tried to move quickly out from under Twig, “someone’s coming.”

Roughly – there was no time to be gentle – the doctor pulled him away from the boy. “Thank you for your help with the IV, Mr. Harper, but you should be resting. You’re still too ill to move,” he said loudly. “Don’t worry, son, Twig seems to have taken a turn for the better, as I hoped he would. The child is still weak and will need more care, but should be able to return to work eventually…”

Gritting his teeth to keep from crying out at the sudden, forced movement that jarred his already nauseous body, Harper steadied himself against the barrack wall with an elbow and tried to control his breathing, falling back on long buried talents from years spent on Earth in hiding. He zoned out the doctor’s loud, steady cover story and focused on the sounds around him. He could hear the footsteps stop just outside the curtain, but it wasn’t brushed aside. The steady, healthy breathing told him it was a Nietzschean standing there, listening, observing, waiting…

It was like an unrecognized contest, a “hear-down” if you will. Genetically-enhanced ears versus necessity-enhanced ears. Who would slip up first?

Twig moaned a little and Harper felt the doctor tense, but his steady stream of false conversation never faltered. Finally, after what seemed like ages, Harper heard the figure outside their curtain move on, apparently satisfied with what he heard without having to look. Still Harper waited at least another minute just to be sure. 

“He’s gone,” the engineer whispered at last, relief and exhaustion in his voice. He actually physically felt the doctor sag next to him. Silence reigned for several minutes while they pieced their nerves back together, then the old slave forced himself back to work. 

Harper listened as the other man settled Twig into a more comfortable position, propped up slightly to ease his breathing, then untangled the IV and tucked the blanket firmly around the boy’s thin frame.

“Now, it’s your turn,” Bartholomew said, turning to the young engineer. Harper noticed right away that the disapproval was back in the doctor’s voice. Apparently his escape from bed hadn’t been forgotten. “Are you all right?” the man asked, referring to his less than gentle shove earlier.

“Yeah, peachy,” Harper replied with a forced grin.

“Smiling won’t stop the lecture, son.”

“Dang,” he grumbled, but it was mostly for show. Weak and shaky, he let the doctor maneuver him back onto his mattress and gritted his teeth as the IV was withdrawn and replaced in a new, less-abused vein.

“From now on, stay in bed means stay in bed, understand?” Dr. Kesler commanded. “I can’t keep putting you back together so stop pressing your luck.”

Thoroughly chastised, Harper nodded.

“How are the hands?” the other slave asked, surprising Harper with the change of subject and the return of warmth to his voice. Just like his blindness, he now sometimes forgot that his hands hadn’t always been crippled and in constant pain.

“They’re fine,” he said shortly, not wanting to talk about it since there was nothing either of them could do. “Those nanos you gave me worked…” Harper trailed off as something ran through his mind suddenly, catching long rusty creative wheels.

“Mr. Harper,” Dr. Kesler said, sitting down on the mattress beside the engineer. His voice was suddenly serious, and it drew Harper back from his mental musings for a moment.

“What?” he asked, hesitantly.

“There’s something I have to do. I don’t want to, and I’ve been avoiding it as long as I can, but that scare just a moment ago reminded me I can’t put it off any longer. If that guard had opened the curtain and seen you…”

“Do what?” Harper asked again, starting to get freaked. Then he heard the familiar clank of metal on metal.

“I was supposed to put these back on last night, son, but I couldn’t do it, and now we’ve run out of time.”

“Oh, is that all?” Harper said with a small laugh, holding out his wrists. “Slap ‘em on, Doc. No biggie.”

The doctor laughed too, but it sounded rather hollow as he gently took hold of one of his arms. “You know I hate doing this, don’t you?” he asked again, carefully unwrapping the bandage from around Harper’s sore wrist.

“Doc, right now I’m warm and lying on something soft. I actually got hot food to eat today, and a day without being whipped or yelled at. To top it all off, Twig’s gonna be all right and you didn’t get in trouble. A little thing like you putting the stupid chains I’m already used to back on is not gonna ruin my life, okay?”

“I see why you survive,” Doc Barty replied after a moment, taking off the other bandage and sliding the familiar coolness of metal into its place. Despite his words, Harper couldn’t hide the small flinch as they clicked closed and his hands were trapped once again. “I honestly can’t understand why my master keeps these on you. No other slaves have ever been kept in restraints inside the camp,” the doctor continued, sounding upset and troubled.

“Not Adoniram,” Harper corrected tiredly, “Felix. Doesn’t like me much…thinks I’ll run away again…” He gave a hollow, dead sort of laugh. “So, Doc,” he said, trying to distract himself from that unpleasant subject, “tell me something. Why are you even here? I mean, how often do you actually get to offer help to us grunts?”

The doctor adjusted the heavy manacles and then pushed the engineer’s hands gently down before he replied.

“It depends on Andoniram’s whims,” he replied softly, sadness tingeing his voice. “Sometimes I’m asked to treat slaves with aliments as simple as cuts and bruises, and sometimes I must stand by and watch as others are tortured to death. Or worse, die from something as curable as the flu, knowing I could help but aren’t allowed.”

“Why do you keep trying?” Harper asked, subdued.

“How could I live with myself if I stopped?” the doctor countered. When Harper didn’t answer, Dr. Kesler turned it around. “And why do you keep trying, Mr. Harper?”

“I don’t know,” Harper replied honestly. “Too darn stubborn for my own good I guess.”

“Or perhaps you have people worth struggling for?” the man said as he got slowly to his feet, his knees cracking.

Harper’s head turned instinctively toward the mattress next to him even as his mind flashed to thoughts of Dylan, Beka, and the rest of the crew. “Maybe,” he muttered, wondering if that feeling in the pit of his stomach was the beginnings of a renewed will to survive and tell the Niets where to shove it. He sure hoped not, just when he’d made peace with this whole dying slowly thing. That would just be annoying.

The old doctor patted his good hand affectionately and then turned to leave. “Hey, Doc?” Harper called out, dragging his mind back to the present and remembering something important. “Do you use nanobots often?”

“As often as I’m allowed.”

“Are they activated before or after they enter the body?”

“After. Why?” His voice was puzzled.

“Nothing… Just wondering.”

“Enough wondering, more sleeping, Mr. Harper.”

“Gotcha,” Harper replied distractedly, his brain already a million miles away.

*****

Sometime later, he had no idea if it was day or night, Harper awoke from the most restful nap he’d had in a long time to find that he wasn’t alone. Small, rough fingers were gently tracing the edges of the cuffs locked on his wrists, tugging him back to awareness. He realized that at some point while he slept, Twig had crawled over and curled up right next to him, pressed against his side.

“Hey there,” Harper whispered gently to let the boy know he was awake.

“Hey,” Twig answered. His voice broke the stillness around them, sounding quiet and solemn. “They put them back on,” he added sadly, stating the unchangeable as his fingers continued their soft circles around the chains on Harper’s wrists.

Harper turned his head in the direction Twig’s voice came from, wishing he could still put his arm around the boy. “Yeah,” he answered, surprised that the child had even noticed their absence considering how ill he was. 

“I’m sorry,” Twig whispered.

“It’s all right,” Harper lied. The truth was, despite his flippant words to the doctor earlier and his casual denial to Twig now, he hated having those chains on his hands. Except for the precious two days spent in this hospital barrack with them free, his hands had been bound in one way or another since the moment they were first captured back on Sommer’s Drift, all those long, long months ago. It got old really fast.

“You feeling better?” Harper asked his small friend, changing the subject.

“A little,” Twig replied.

“You sound better,” Harper told him. And he did. The harsh breathing had evened out and though he could tell the boy was still fighting pain, he didn’t sound ready to give up anymore.

“That man, the one you call Doc, did he fix me?”

“As much as he can,” Harper answered carefully.

“He’s nice.”

Harper smiled for real. “Yup, he is, but he won’t like it if he catches you out of bed… Might get a tad grouchy… Believe me I know! Better scoot back over there.”

“Okay,” Twig replied. Harper could almost hear him smile and a huge weight seemed to lift from the engineer’s chest. The little boy slid back to his own mattress and, as they lay there in comfortable silence, Harper found he sorta missed the warmth of Twig being next to him.

“Harper?” Twig asked suddenly. “Who’s Colleen?”

Abruptly, all breath left Harper’s body in a gasp. “What?” he choked out.

“Colleen,” Twig repeated. “Sometimes when you sleep, you call for them. And for Beka, but you’ve told me who she is.”

Harper felt…he didn’t know what he felt! He was in shock and for a long time he couldn’t answer as his eyes misted over and his throat closed up. Finally, he forced his tongue to work. “She was…just a girl I used to know, Twig,” he said softly, turning his face away to hide the small drops of water leaking out of the corners of his eyes.

“Was she on the _Maru_ with you like Beka and Trance?” Twig continued, oblivious to Harper’s distress.

“No…no she wasn’t,” the engineer whispered.

“Okay,” Twig replied gamely. His voice sounded tired again and he fell silent for some minutes. “Can I hear more about Jack?” he finally asked.

“Yeah, sure,” Harper gulped, grateful for the change of subject as he tried to collect his shattered composure. “Where did we leave off?”

*****

“Hey, Doc?”

“Yes, Mr. Harper?” the older man returned, his hands not pausing as they tied off the bandages. Twig was sleeping deeply on his mattress next to them, oblivious to their conversation and his health finally starting to show some improvement, so the doctor had taken a moment to steal a look at Harper’s abused feet. The young man’s socks, so strangely and graciously given to him, were almost worn through and pretty soon his feet would once more be at the mercy of the harsh ground. Harper hadn’t said anything about it, knowing he was lucky to even be allowed this recovery period and the treatment the doctor had been able to offer, but Dr. Kesler had noticed anyway. Before the engineer was once again dragged from his care and forced back to work, the doctor wanted to make sure his feet were as protected as he could make them.

“Can I ask you for a favor?” Harper said, tilting his head to one side as he listened to the other man work and tried to use the sounds to picture his actions.

“You can ask, son, but I can’t guarantee I can do it. You know that…”

Harper smiled a little. “Don’t worry, Doc, I don’t think this one will get the Ubers breathing down your neck.”

The doctor set the foot he was doctoring back down on the mattress and gently tucked it and the other back under the blanket, arranging the cumbersome chains. “What can I do for you then?” he asked, settling down at his side.

“I was just wondering…I don’t really need to know but…well… What does Twig look like? I know it’s a stupid thing, but it really bugs me not knowing about people, especially him.”

The doctor laughed softly. “No, it’s not a stupid thing. It’s a very natural thing to wonder. He’s a very sweet little boy, actually, which is amazing considering that he’s grown up here.”

“Well, I know _that_ , Doc,” Harper said, rolling his blind eyes. “I was thinking more along the lines of eye-color, buck-teeth…that sorta thing.”

“I know, Mr. Harper,” the doctor teased with a smile. “Well, for a start, he’s quite small for his age, as I’m sure you’ve figured out. He hasn’t exactly had the chance to have proper nourishment. And his hair is shaved off, like the rest of you, but, judging by his eyebrows, if it were allowed to grow I’d guess it would be a dark brown. His eyes are a deep brown as well and they appear huge against his pale, dirty skin. And would you believe, under all that dirt, there are freckles, scattered across his nose and cheeks? I discovered them when I gave him his bath.”

Harper laughed lightly. “Of course he has freckles. It would be just wrong if he didn’t have freckles.” For the first time, the mental image of Twig that lived in his brain started to flesh out. It was nice.

“Anything else you’d like to know?”

“No, I’m good now. Thanks, Doc.”

The doctor patted his leg in a fatherly fashion and then stood up. “Then I had probably better get back to work. You…just rest.”

*****

“ON YOUR FEET, MULE!”

Harper jerked painfully awake at the harsh words yelled right in his face. His eyes flew open in surprise and he found himself being hauled roughly to his feet by the chains around his wrists.

“You’ve lain around too long, lazy trash! You’re healthy enough now, no matter what that Kludge crack says. Time to go back to work!”

The IV was ripped harshly from the back of his hand as Harper struggled to get his sleepy wits about him and his feet underneath him. He heard Twig whimper slightly in the background and mentally willed him to just stay quiet and fly unnoticed under the radar.

The truth was, if it hadn’t been for the shock of being dragged so suddenly out of sleep, he really wouldn’t have been all that surprised. He’d been expecting to get the boot for some time now, knowing Doc Barty couldn’t justify keeping him there for much longer. Six days of slave sick leave _with_ food was pushing all known Nietzschean limits. And he was ready. Not ready to go back to the toil and pain and grind of the mines, _never_ ready to go back to that, and not anxious to leave Twig behind but at least knowing he’d be okay, but ready to see Dylan again and let him know they were alive. He was pretty sure the big guy was in full out panic/self-reproach mode and needed to be kicked out of it. And, except for the lingering, pesky headache, Harper actually felt physically better than he had for a long time.

So instead of protesting, Harper just gritted his teeth and kept his mouth shut while the Uber he didn’t know man-handled him through the hospital barrack by the back of his shirt, a small trickle of blood itching as it ran down the back of his hand and dripped on the floor. They stopped at what he assumed was the door. 

“I’m checking your patient out, Kludge. See that he gets to his barrack,” the guard spat, tossing Harper on the floor in a careless heap before walking away.

“Not big on filing proper forms and documents around here, are they?” Harper joked ruefully once the guard was gone and Dr. Kesler was helping him back to his feet.

“Ah, no,” Bartholomew agreed. “Come on, let me stop that bleeding and then get you to your barrack before he comes back. And don’t worry, I’ll watch over Twig.”

*****

With an extremely weary sigh, Dylan dumped the rest of his watery soup on the ground and stood up to rinse off his dishes. He knew he should eat it, no matter how bad it tasted, but he had no appetite now. There was just no point…to anything anymore. 

He was the universe’s biggest failure. Why should he worry about eating crummy food just to stay alive in a crummy prison as a crummy slave knowing he’d been unable even to protect two helpless kids?

And, if you got right down to the heart of the matter, he was lonely. He never thought he’d say it but he missed Harper. A lot. Twig as well. This place could get to you fast, suck out all your will to live in just a few short hours of back-breaking drudgery; it took talent to survive. Maybe Harper had been right; he really wouldn’t be able to survive as a slave without the young man around, “watching” his back and keeping him grounded and sane.

There was a strange buzz in the air of the barrack when Dylan entered to try and get some sleep. Simon, Ethan, Dakin, and Peter, along with quite a few others were crowded excitedly around his pile of straw. Before he could ask what was going on, Peter saw him and nudged the others. Bodies quickly parted leaving a clear view to his bed. 

The captain stopped short in shock.

Sitting on the old, familiar, musty straw, Harper heard the clank of chains and raised his head, smiling slightly. “Hiya, Boss,” he said softly.

The room around him fell into complete silence, as if holding its breath.

“Hey, Harper,” he finally heard, Dylan’s own voice quiet and just a tad shaky. 

“Good to hear your voice again,” Harper said after a minute, struggling to his feet.

“It’s good to _see_ you again. I thought they had kil – I was…worried about you. You look better,” the older man said, awkwardly.

“Smell better, too,” Harper quipped with a grin, trying to downplay the emotion. “Got the hospital special full-body sponge bath while I was there. Shame they had no pretty nurses…”

Without warning, Harper suddenly felt Dylan’s hands on his shoulders and, despite the chains, found himself pulled into a bone-crushing, back-pounding hug by his stoic and aloof captain.

“Oof,” he muttered as the air momentarily left his lungs. More than a little surprised and embarrassed, he tried to return the favor with his good hand, not at all sure what to do in a situation like this. “Um, thanks, Boss. I’m okay, really…” he added. “You can let go now…”

The room around them exploded in applause and laughter as the other slaves expressed their excitement and delight. Dylan released him and stepped back while Harper blushed furiously.

“Sorry, Mr. Harper,” the captain said sheepishly, his voice still heavy with suppressed emotions. “I won’t do it again. I just…well…it’s just been a long week.”

Harper grinned as he nodded. “Oh, yes it has.”

“Good to ‘ave ya back, Seamus,” Peter said, squeezing his left shoulder as their small group of friends closed in around him. 

“Hey guys!” the engineer exclaimed and then smiled through several minutes of greetings and careful pats on the back or shakes of his hand. “Twig asked me to tell you all hi,” he said when he could get a word in. That brought another round of cheering from the group.

“You mean he’s okay?” Ethan and Dylan breathed at exactly the same time.

Harper’s smile died a little. “He’s alive and getting better,” he answered, “but he’ll never be as strong again,” he added sadly.

“He’s alive,” Simon said solemnly. “That’s what matters.”

“Yeah,” Harper agreed, forcing himself to smile again. “Doc should let him go in a few days. In the meantime, you guys gotta help me think of some more stories. He used up all my supply this last week. I even had to resort to the tale of Jack and the Three Little Perseids.”

Around him, everyone laughed and for the first time in a long while, Harper’s spirits rose. He was still blind, he was still crippled and in pain, and he was still a slave, but he wasn’t alone. In the last half-year, he’d relearned how to appreciate the little gifts in life; he would take his joy wherever he could. Besides, this little _adventure_ had given him several rather interesting things to think about… He smiled again and let his friends hammer him with questions, asking a few of his own in return and just generally enjoying their companionship

Well into the night, the good spirits continued in Barrack 6B. One of their own had cheated death and the Ubers and come back against all odds. That was worth celebrating.


	48. Chapter 47

**Chapter 47**

_I hope and hoping feeds my pain  
I weep and weeping feeds my failing heart  
I laugh but the laughter does not pass within  
I burn but the burning makes no mark outside_

\- Niccolo Machiavelli

*****

Working swiftly, Alfred tethered the horses and got the animals settled for the night. The tall, dark-skinned slave then took a moment to gaze out in the distance at the mountains they’d left behind. Since they’d all been riding, the caravan had made good time. They’d been on the road for a little over a week and a half and would be in the city the next day. The return trip, with lines of shackled slaves, would not be nearly as fast. It usually took over three weeks.

Thinking of the port city they approached, Alfred unconsciously put a hand to the front of his shirt. The letter and packet Master Marcus had given him was hidden there, feeling like a dead weight. Sometimes, he thought it would burn a hole through his chest, and surely there was no way his own master could fail to see the bulge, but so far the Nietzschean had been too busy and too secure in his slave’s obedience to notice. Still, Alfred would be very grateful to be rid of this burden he didn’t understand as soon as possible.

“Slave!”

Alfred jerked up at the sound of his master’s voice, realizing he’d allowed himself to daydream far too long. Quickly, he walked to his master’s side, keeping his head bowed.

“Yes, Master?”

“How are the supplies holding up?”

Mentally, Alfred went through the list of what they’d brought with them. There were ten Nietzscheans making the trip and they were accompanied by sixteen slaves, plus horses for them all. But he’d packed well, a veteran of these annual trips.

“The supplies are sufficient for quite a while yet, my lord. We should be fine.”

“Good. Then I’ve decided we’ll journey to the neighboring villages and gather slaves there first before picking up more supplies and the slaves brought from off-world in the city.”

“Yes, my lord,” the slave replied, bowing again even as his hope sank. Going to the villages first would mean it would be at least two more weeks before they entered the city and he could fulfill Master Marcus’s orders and deliver his message. Two more weeks of danger, fear, and worry… Only sheer willpower held back the deep sigh.

“Go help the others prepare the meal,” his master ordered by way of dismissal, and Alfred nodded, backing away with a heavy heart.

*****

Dylan strained against the ropes of the cart, breathing heavily. Beside him, Harper was struggling as well. It was only his third day back in the mines and, while he’d appeared much better after his stay in the hospital barrack, Dylan was now realizing how much the drug and consequent illness had actually sapped his lingering strength. He was just glad that for the last two days their barrack had been assigned cart duty so he’d been able to help the young man.

“BREAK!” came the yell from the guard up ahead. It was repeated down the tunnel like some freakish echo.

Gratefully, Harper and Dylan sank to the ground where they were, panting. Harper pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his bound arms around them, staring off into nothingness as he let his head slump forward. Dylan leaned back against the wall of the cave, placing one hand on the ground behind him and letting the other rest in his lap since the chain prevented it from moving any farther from the other.

“You okay?” the captain asked.

“Peachy, you?”

“Fine.”

Conversation died. There was really nothing else to say now that the requisite lies had been exchanged. At least it was the second break, meaning the end of the day was only a few hours away.

Waiting for one of the young boys to arrive with the water bucket, Dylan shifted around, trying to find a more comfortable position. 

“Ow!” he suddenly hissed through his teeth, pulling his hand off the ground quickly. He’d leaned down on something sharp. Bringing the hand back around, he noticed a deep cut running across his palm, leaking blood.

“What is it?” Harper asked, straightening and turning in his direction, worry evident in his voice.

“Nothing, Harper,” Dylan hushed quietly and brought the bleeding appendage to his mouth, even as his mind whirled. He shifted around so he could see the ground behind him, right next to the cavern wall.

“What happened?” Harper pressed insistently, hearing the captain’s movements and hating not knowing what was going on.

“Just put my hand on something sharp,” Dylan said quietly, trying not to draw attention to their conversation.

“Oh, probably the same thing I stepped on a while back,” Harper replied, his face thoughtful. “Cut yourself?”

“Yeah,” Dylan said distractedly, searching the ground while trying to look like he wasn’t. There, back in the shadows mostly buried under loose rocks and dirt, something glinted dully in the torchlight of the tunnel. With a quick glance around to make sure no one was looking, he pulled it out, his bleeding hand forgotten.

It was a knife! An actual, real-life, honest-to-goodness knife! Perhaps there was a Divine after all! Heart pounding, he glanced around nervously again, knowing it would mean death or worse to be caught with a weapon, no matter how small it might be. And he could attest personally to the fact that it wasn’t dull and worthless. Covertly, he palmed it.

“So, Harper, when do you think Twig will come back?” he asked, trying to use normal conversation to cover his actions. 

“I don’t know,” Harper answered, either fooled by Dylan’s question or sensing the need to play along. As the engineer talked, Dylan leaned forward and casually slipped the knife into his boot, pretending to be adjusting the cumbersome shackle. It was a huge risk, keeping it, but it was also a tremendously unexpected gift and not one he was going to let slip by. That one object tipped the odds of escaping significantly better in their favor. “I hope Doc manages to keep him there for quite a while, though,” Harper continued rambling, just what Dylan wanted. “The kid needs the rest and getting out, even though we get to be with him again, just means he gets sent back to this…” Harper gestured vaguely to the unseen mine with all its horrors around him.

“Yeah, rest would be good,” the captain mumbled, only half paying attention to his blind friend. The guard and the little water carrier were almost to them, and he wanted to make sure the knife was well hidden and nothing was suspicious or out of the ordinary. Finally convinced the object was safe, he schooled his features to show only the usual weariness. “Water’s almost here,” he told Harper. 

The boy nodded his thanks for the warning. It was natural for them now, little things like that, to help ease the burden of Harper’s blindness.

With the Uber guard standing in the background, never far away, the little slave approached with the bucket and ladle. He was one of the older ones assigned this duty, maybe around fourteen but, like all the children unfortunate enough to call this place home, he was tiny and looked exhausted. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and his skin was pale and transparent.

“Here,” he said softly, carefully placing the ladle in Harper’s good hand so that none of the precious liquid could spill. There weren’t that many of the little water carriers and by now they all knew Harper and his special problems. 

“Thanks,” Harper said, bringing the water to his lips and drinking gratefully. When the last drop was sucked out, he handed it back to the child who refilled it and gave it to Dylan. The captain took it, but his thoughts were still preoccupied. Could the Uber tell he was hiding something? Would the man’s super-senses give them away, pick up his elevated heart rate? Or would he put it down as pure exhaustion? Absently, he drained the ladle and returned it to the little slave, knowing that their few minutes of break must be almost up.

So far, his miracle find had gone undetected, even by Harper. And that brought up a new issue… Should he tell the young man? Harper knowing there was a weapon within his reach might come in handy for the boy sometime, but it also might prove deadly. And if the Ubers came around questioning slaves about a missing knife, the less Harper knew the better it would be for him. Besides, there was no way he could ever be sure no one would overhear their conversation if he did share his secret with the engineer. No, Dylan decided, for the time being, he’d best keep this to himself.

The guard and the young slave moved on, and Dylan was still lost in his own thoughts. He was so consumed by them that it took him several times to realize Harper was speaking to him.

“Huh?” he asked, blinking at his friend.

“Hello, earth to Dylan,” Harper teased, poking him lightly in the ribs, but there was concern in his voice as well. “I asked if the hand was okay?”

Dylan looked at his hand, suddenly remembering the cut. It was rather deep, painful, and still bleeding, but as there was nothing he could do about it, he just shrugged. “It’s fine, Harper,” he replied. 

Harper frowned, clearly not believing him, but Dylan was saved from further questions as the order came to resume their work. Sighing, they both stood and shouldered their grueling task once more, but this time as they pulled and strained, Dylan felt the heavy, comforting and yet dangerous weight of the knife against his leg. It certainly gave him something else to think about.

*****

The shrill, morning whistle cut through the darkness, dragging the slaves back to awareness.

“What?” Harper grumbled, rolling over onto his back and scrubbing an aching hand across his face. “It can’t be time to get up yet?” he whined sleepily.

“No, it’s not,” Dylan answered firmly, sitting up, his face creased with worry. “It’s too early. We’ve only been asleep for a few hours.” The knife felt hot inside his boot as he spoke and his stomach twisted in fear. “Something’s going on…”

Harsh coughing announced Simon’s presence at their straw pile. The Wayist was looking decidedly ill these days, something that worried and alarmed his friends.

“The camp feels odd tonight,” he said solemnly as Ethan, Peter and Dakin joined them. “I sense that something is wrong.”

“Oh gee, you sure know how to make a guy feel better,” Harper groused, struggling to his feet. He didn’t mean to snap at the man, but he was tired and grumpy and it showed. And the truth was, Simon wasn’t the only one who felt it; a growing sense of dread filled the air as the slaves waited for their prison to be opened. Everyone but Harper could see that the bonfires were being lit once more. And Harper? He could smell the smoke.

“Back home, we’d roast s’mores on bonfire’s like them,” Ethan mumbled once to break the growing tension in the air. “Nothing beats a good, flame roasted s’more.” A few people laughed feebly at his words, but without any real heart. No one really wanted to think about what would be roasting on these fires... 

Eventually, Marcus came and dragged open the bars, ordering them to roll-call position. Fearfully, the slaves obeyed, terrified to find out what this was all about. But no one was more anxious than Dylan. The knife in his boot was like fire against his skin now, and he wondered how none of the Nietzscheans could sense it. Or maybe they had, and they were just playing with him… Maybe this was all for him…

And then the small line of bloody, battered slaves were lead out in front of the group and forced to their knees, their hands bound behind them, and Dylan knew this was much bigger than him. Adoniram strode briskly after them and stopped before the waiting masses, his face stern and cold. The absence of the usual haughtiness somehow made the man that much more frightening. The Nietzschean captain was angry; very angry, and for the slaves wholly at his mercy that could be nothing but bad.

“An escape was attempted tonight!” he spat without introduction. “These twelve men thought they had the right to try and leave this place, thought they deserved a better life than this! Well, they were wrong! They were wrong and they were caught and now they will suffer! They will learn that they are mine! You’re all mine! Your lives are mine to dispose of as I please! No one leaves this camp unless you’re a corpse!” 

He paused for effect, his face red and his eyes blazing. The camp was deathly silent, the slaves hardly daring to breathe. No escape of this magnitude had even been attempted before; they had no idea what was going to happen.

“In this camp, every action has a consequence,” Adoniram continued, his voice calmer now but much more chilling. He pivoted so he was directly addressing the pitiful creatures that were trembling on their knees before him. “Every action affects those around you. That’s the lesson that I’ll teach you here today. I know you’re terrified, waiting to die; I can smell the fear from here, but you will not die. You’ll live and remember the consequences of your choices.” Then he turned to his waiting guards. “Twelve tried to leave, so twelve will be the lottery number. Start at that end,” he gestured dismissively to the right side of the gathered rows of slaves, “and start counting. Shoot every twelfth one.”

An audible gasp rose from the ranks of waiting slaves and some trembled visibly. A few closest to the end who could count, fell to their knees, eyes wide with horrible realization. Their fate sealed, they could only watch death approach. 

The first gunshot echoed through the early morning blackness with sickening clarity, an audible symbol of ultimate evil, power, and helplessness. For Harper, it was also the sound of true, gut-gripping terror. To stand there in the dark and not know…not know if someone you talked to five minutes ago was next…not know if your friends were lying dead around you. To hear the stomping of the Nietzscheans’ boots coming nearer and have no way of knowing if they would stop in front of Dylan, or Peter, or Simon and pull the trigger… Or if the count would end on him and his crushing blackness would all dissolve in one brilliant flash of light… His one redeeming, grateful thought was that Twig was not there…

The stomping, the strangled cries and wails, the echoing explosions and dull thuds…they all got closer and closer until they were right beside him. He sucked in his breath and closed his eyes, waiting. The shot was almost deafening but he felt no impact of freezing pain. Then the sounds moved away in the other direction and he was still standing; spared. 

He forced himself to breathe again.

Eventually – minutes, maybe hours later – the gunshots ceased. The smell of death was thick in the air, and the survivors whimpered in shock and fear, gratitude and sorrow. Adoniram said nothing, just surveyed his work and walked away. 

Harper felt the first rays of morning sun hit his skin and turned his face toward it, searching for any small measure of comfort. And yet, still they stood there in their lines, statues among the fallen. Harper heard a terrible, half-smothered series of coughs from his left and his heart rejoiced briefly. Simon was alive.

Morning crawled by. The small sounds from the slaves died out to be replaced by the buzzing of insects. Now they just endured as the gentle morning light turned to the beating heat of day and the stench of death grew. A slight, purposeful clanking of iron chains on his right fortified him for a few more hours. Dylan was alive.

Finally, well into the hot afternoon, loud footsteps heralded Adoniram’s return. To Harper, the silence seemed to stretch for eons, and he could imagine the Uber’s cruel eyes sweeping the carnage before him. At last he spoke.

“Lesson received,” he said coldly. “Gather the dead. Tomorrow you work again.” 

Then he was gone.

There was no food that day. Only water and a return to the barracks, silence pervading all. The knife was still heavy in Dylan’s boot, but it was weighed down by more than fear now. How could he lead Harper and Twig on a great escape after that? How could they go knowing what would happen to those left behind? How could he live with that many innocent lives on his hands, that much blood staining his soul?

As soon as they were inside their barrack, Harper sagged against him. “We made it,” he whispered, but his voice sounded more shocked than celebratory. “We all made it.”

Dylan looked around at the sorrowful, weary faces of his friends and companions, and the glaringly empty space…

“No, Harper,” he said sadly. “Not all of us…”

*****

“Harper!”

The engineer raised his head and turned it in the direction of the distant shout, his last bite of bread forgotten in his hand. The sound of pounding feet echoed across the compound.

“Harper, Harper, Harper!” 

The happy cry got louder and closer and suddenly Harper found himself swallowed up in the biggest bear-hug two tiny, spindly, little arms could produce.

“Twig!” he cried, a huge smile splitting his face as the arms wrapped tighter around his neck. He returned the hug as best he could.

“Harper,” the boy repeated contentedly. “I’m so, so, so glad to see you again.”

“Yeah,” Harper laughed. “Me too, buddy. You sound a whole lot better, now. You’re even running again!”

“The Doc says I’m almost good as new!” the boy gushed. “I’m not supposed to run lots, or play hard like we did before, but I can breathe good again and it don’t hurt no more!”

Harper laughed again. “That’s great, Twig. Now, think you could stop squeezing my neck so _I_ could breathe, too?”

Instantly, Twig let go. “Sorry,” he mumbled, sounding embarrassed.

Dylan took that moment to cut in. “Hey there, Twig,” he interrupted with smile and a little wave. 

“Dylan!” the little boy cried, instantly descending on the captain with another bear-hug. Dylan laughed.

“I’ve missed you,” he told the boy, ruffling the fuzz on his head. “It’s just not the same around here without you.”

“We’ve all missed ya,” Peter added, patting the little slave on the back. Dakin nodded in agreement, a gentle smile on his face, and Simon allowed himself to be smothered up in a chest-squeezing hug as well. Twig pulled away from the Wayist and beamed.

“The Doc was nice and that bed was warm and soft, but I got really bored after a while,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “No one would tell me stories anymore.”

Everyone laughed, glad to have the youngest member of their odd little family back with them, safe and mostly sound. Twig looked around at each of them and smiled again, but his smile changed to confusion after a moment.

“Harper?” he asked, turning to his role-model instinctively. “Where’s Ethan?”

Harper sighed and lowered his head briefly before gesturing for Twig to come sit beside him. The little boy sensed the change of mood instantly.

“What?” he asked fearfully as he sat in the dirt next to his friend.

“Twig,” Harper said carefully, willing his throat not to close up on him. “Twig, Ethan’s not here anymore.” He felt Twig’s little hand slide into his and squeezed it gently as he forced himself to continue. Twig had turned to him…to him, not Dylan, not one of the others; he would be the one to tell him. “Ethan died a few days ago, Twig,” the engineer continued gently. “He’s gone now, Kiddo.”

For a moment, there was complete silence. Then suddenly, Twig sucked in a huge breath and started to cry. The cries quickly turned to wails and then wracking sobs that shook his whole frame. Gently, Harper pulled the little boy toward his chest and held him close, rocking slightly. Around them their friends watched and sat silent vigil, knowing the tiny slave’s tears were the only memorial their dead friend would ever get. As he cried, they each remembered the big, gentle man with a slow, western drawl…the man who loved his children enough to become a slave in their place…children he would never see again now… 

“Get it all out,” Harper whispered, holding the boy as his sobs deepened. “That’s it. Go ahead and cry. No one deserves to more.” 

They sat that way until evening curfew sounded, and long before that Harper’s shirt was wet through with tears.


	49. Chapter 48

**Chapter 48**

_I live now on borrowed time, waiting in the anteroom for the summons that will inevitably come. And then – I go on to the next thing, whatever it is. One doesn’t luckily have to bother about that._

\- Agatha Christie

*****

“Dylan?”

The captain turned to face his friend when the engineer spoke. For now, it was just the two of them, Twig having wandered off to play cards with Peter. It was getting too cool in the evenings to spend much time outside, so they were sitting inside their barrack, leaning wearily against the log walls.

“Right here, Harper.” Dylan gave the young man a good once-over as he answered, trying to decide where the conversation was headed by the shape the boy was in. He looked worn-out, starved, and pale, but that was nothing new. His cap was slapped on his hairless head with the short brim pointing backwards. Dylan didn’t know if Harper was deliberately trying to make a jaunty new fashion statement, or if it was an honest mistake because he couldn’t see, but it did give him a more relaxed, normal air than was usual. Still, Dylan frowned as his gaze fell on the massive black eye covering one side of Harper’s face, strangely about the same size as a well-proportioned Uber fist. Maybe that’s what Harper wanted to talk about?

“How’s your chemistry?”

A look that was more at home on Harper’s own face flashed across the captain’s. “Huh?” he asked in utter confusion.

Without moving, Harper smiled deeply. “Not that kind of chemistry, Boss,” he laughed. “You know, NA, AU, isotopes, chemical bonds…that kind of chemistry.”

“Oh,” Dylan replied, still a little flummoxed. This was certainly not the conversation he’d been expecting. It kind of threw him. “I, um, took a few classes, back in the day. But why are you asking me? You’re the resident genius.”

“Yes, and chemistry was one of the many courses I took in my extensive formal education,” Harper said with tired sarcasm. 

Dylan flinched a little, even though he knew his friend hadn’t really meant to make his words sting. The boy was just tired beyond belief. “Sorry,” he offered quietly. Harper was a certifiable genius, that much was true. Dylan had become so used to the boy pulling off anything he put his mind to that he sometimes forgot the sad facts of his upbringing.

Harper sighed and pulled his knees up to his chest, letting his chin fall forward on top of them. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. Just been a long day. The truth is, chemistry has never been my strength. I usually get Rommie or Trance to check chemical equations for me, or use my dataport, and well here…” he gestured around at the blackness with his good hand, “my options are bit more limited.”

“Well, I can’t say I was top of the class,” Dylan said with a small smile. “I was usually more interested in what Daphne Perkins next to me was saying than what the instructor had to say, but I _did_ pull a B, so I can try and help. What’s on your mind?”

“Salt,” Harper said tersely. 

“Salt?” the captain echoed, not following at all.

“Well, sodium chloride to be more precise.”

“What about it?” Dylan asked, still confused. By being included in this little brainstorming project, he was getting a crash course in how Harper’s mind worked. He felt like he was flying through slipstream without a pilot.

“Do you remember the percentage of salt in the human body?” Harper countered.

Dylan gave up on following and just decided to play along. “Something like 0.14% or 0.15% isn’t it?” That much he did remember because it had been reiterated in mandatory High Guard first aid classes. “But I think it fluctuates with your body mass.”

Harper looked thoughtful, even though he was still staring off at nothing. “Okay, that’s what I thought. What about the percentage of sodium in the oceans?”

“Lots of planets with lots of oceans, Mr. Harper, and not even all of them have salt water oceans.”

“On Tarn Vedra then,” Harper replied casually. “Or Earth, before the occupation, if you know…”

“Well, according to my dad, Tarn Vedra’s oceans contained an average of about 1.12% sodium. I think that was a bit lower than Earth’s oceans, but I’m not sure how much lower.”

Harper just nodded. “Thanks.”

Dylan waited for the engineer to say something else, ask more questions, or at least explain a bit, but Harper continued to sit there, ignoring the captain as he sorted through his own thoughts.

“Pretty tired,” he finally said after a long while. “Gonna go to bed.”

“All right,” Dylan replied, shrugging as he watched his friend maneuver himself onto their pile of straw. Harper lowered himself gingerly to his side, avoiding his always bleeding back, and pulled his ragged blanket up to his chin, curling his feet up to keep them covered as well. 

“Goodnight, Mr. Harper,” Dylan whispered to himself as Harper’s breathing evened out with sleep. “Rest that very confusing brain of yours.”

*****

Sorrow is like an element. It can be a gas, thick in the air, dispelling the oxygen, snatching breath away. It can be a solid, an unmovable lump in the throat, a sharp stumbling block. And it can be a liquid, tears leaking from dull eyes, rolling down pale cheeks, falling to parched earth… The ground can swallow sorrow, carry it deep until it becomes a part of the landscape, a memory and fixture as constant and old as the rocks and the hills and the trees. Land can learn to smell like sorrow, water can take on its taste, birds can draw it into their songs.

And people who live in those lands of sorrow absorb it into their very bones.

With a deep, deep sigh, Alfred looked around the village square. The dull clank of chains mingled with muffled sobs and filled the air. New slaves…chattel…possessions of the strong and powerful waited limply in lines for their fate. Nameless, faceless, objects…and yet, even after ten years, Alfred still saw people, sorrow etched deep on the face of each and every one. Men, old and young, children… Ten years now…and the agony still cut clean through.

Just one more week until they reached the city and he could deliver his message. Just one more week of marching through this sorrow-soaked land and plucking people from their lives, of watching arrogant men play god with souls like they were playing chess.

Just one more week, then he could see them as any other slave trekking to the camp, any other prisoner laboring away their lives… Then he could forget the faces they left behind, the hands that clutched after them, the sobs that followed them until snatched away by the wind.

One more week until he could go back to the comfortable lie that was his life.

*****

Beka looked up as the door to her office chirped, announcing a visitor.

“Yeah, come in,” she called, pushing aside the flexi’s of paperwork, glad for a break. Who knew being captain of a warship came with so much busywork?

A young, handsome if somewhat nervous man in his early thirties stepped into the room and stood at attention before Beka’s desk while she desperately racked her brain for a name.

“Yes, Lieutenant…um…Jerkins,” she said, crossing her fingers that she got it right. “What do ya need? Oh, and relax. You’re gonna throw your back out, standing there like that.”

The man relaxed, barely. “As you know, we’ve been retrofitting the slipstream drive this last week and implementing the new Commonwealth safety procedures.”

“Yeah,” Beka answered, glad for once that she actually knew what he was talking about. “I heard you engineers have been having fun.”

“Well…” the man seemed suddenly more nervous, if that was possible. 

“Come on, spit it out.”

“We can’t complete the procedure without the proper command codes…from the Chief Engineer…”

The words pulled the scab off Beka’s barely healed wounds and she winced slightly. Then she sucked in her breath and tried to hide it. The lieutenant had worked up the courage to come ask her, something she knew couldn’t have been easy given the topic, and he did have a valid point. He was a good man, trying hard to fill some very un-fill-able shoes, and doing it with a tact she appreciated. She squared her shoulders, knowing it was time to put something right.

“Lieutenant Jerkins, you’re the acting Chief Engineer right now, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he replied quietly.

“Well, not anymore. I’m making it official,” she said, willing her heart not to break as she said the words. “Rommie,” she called to the room.

Rommie’s hologram blinked into existence beside the desk. “Yes, Beka?”

“Release all of Harper’s command codes, engineering files, and passwords to Lieutenant Jerkins and then, well you’d probably better go through them with him. Harper’s passwords alone can give you a headache. Oh, and update Jerkins’ file from Acting Chief Engineer to Chief Engineer.”

“Updating now. The files are ready and waiting at your convenience,” she added to the engineer.

Jerkins looked slightly dazed, but nodded smartly. “Thank you.”

Beka forcibly held onto her emotions for a bit longer. “Harper spoke highly of you,” she told him. “Liked working with you for the short while he did. Don’t let him down.”

“I won’t, I promise,” he said and then turned to leave, knowing that was his new captain’s informal way of dismissing him. He stopped short of the door, however, and turned back. Beka eyed him with curiosity.

“Ma’am, I just wanted you to know, I liked him, too. Never met anyone who was a better engineer, even at the Academe. And if...if he ever does come back, I’ll be glad to give the job back to him.” Then he disappeared through the doors without waiting for her to reply, which Beka was grateful for. No good crying in front of the crew.

“Beka?”

The blonde captain looked up. She’d forgotten holo-Rommie was still there.

“It was something you had to do. I’m proud of you.”

“Then why do I feel like I just betrayed my best friend?”

“Because your human emotions are programmed to respond illogically to situations such as these…” she trailed off. “And because I feel the same way.” The projection blinked out.

Beka sighed and let her head sink into her hands, but only for a minute. Life had to go on, and there was still paperwork to do.

 

(As always, would love to hear what you think.)


	50. Chapter 49

**Chapter 49**

_what will be left when i’ve drawn my last breath  
besides the folks i’ve met and the folks who know me  
will i discover a soul saving love  
or just the dirt above and below me_

_i’m a doubting thomas  
i took a promise  
but i do not feel safe  
oh me of little faith_

_sometimes i pray for a slap in the face  
then i beg to be spared ‘cause i’m a coward  
if there’s a master of death i’ll bet he’s holding his breath  
as i show the blind and tell the deaf about his power_

_i’m a doubting thomas  
i can’t keep my promises  
‘cause i don’t know what’s safe  
oh me of little faith_

_can i be used to help others find truth  
when i’m scared i’ll find proof that it’s a lie  
can i be lead down a trail dropping bread crumbs  
that prove i’m not ready to die_

_please give me time to decipher the signs  
please forgive me for time that i’ve wasted_

_i’m a doubting thomas  
i’ll take your promise  
though I know nothing’s safe  
oh me of little faith_

\- Chris Thile

*****

A shiver ran down Harper’s spine as the chill wind picked up a bit. Hunching over, he pulled the edges of his thin, ragged blanket tighter around his body and tried to finish eating his tasteless dinner. The weather had taken a cold turn, reminding them all that winter was coming quickly, and he could feel the cold in his bones. It made his mended ribs and crippled hands ache deeply. Food was never allowed in the barracks, so Dylan and Peter had brought all their blankets out and now they huddled in a group on the ground, their backs to one of the barrack walls as they tried to stay warm. The metal collar around his neck refused to warm up, sending those random shivers up and down his spine when he shifted position and it touched his skin. And, in keeping with his crappy luck, not even the food was warm today; just cold, lumpy mush and dry, hard bread. Harper sighed and pushed it around on the mess-kit he couldn’t see.

A series of harsh, deep coughs next to him reminded Harper that he wasn’t the only one feeling the effects of the cooler temperatures. Simon sounded particularly bad tonight. The engineer could tell that the others were keeping something from him, something they could all gage by sight. It worried him; a lot.

The longer he sat there, pretending to eat, the darker his thoughts sank. The cold, the hunger, the constant pain and weariness… Friendship, warmth, comfort…goodness, those things seemed a million miles and a lifetime away.

“Simon,” he asked quietly, turning his head suddenly toward the Wayist’s position.

“Yes, Seamus?”

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?” The man’s hoarse voice was laced with confusion.

“Go on,” Harper muttered. “Have faith, believe in goodness and kindness and people when everything around you just screams evil.”

For a long time, the man didn’t respond, but Harper knew that was just because his friend was thinking, giving Harper’s question the serious contemplation he felt it deserved. Dylan, Twig and the others were engaged in their own conversation, so no one paid the two any mind.

“You are not evil,” Simon finally replied, his tone gentle. “Nor is Twig, or Dylan, or the others, so it’s not true that we’re only surrounded by evil.”

“Okay, but still. I may not know a whole lot about this spiritual stuff, but I do know the basics of right and wrong.” Harper held up his chained, crippled hands. “This is wrong, keeping people like this. This whole camp is wrong,” he added, gesturing blindly around. “If there is a Divine, how could He let people do this to other people?” Months of pent up frustrations were pouring out of Harper’s soul now, and he was totally unable to stop it.

“I’m not sure,” Simon replied honestly. “I know what comforts me, what I believe, but I also think that’s something each person has to figure out for themselves. I do remember something I read once. It might not give you any comfort, but…”

“What?” Harper asked.

“That bad people are sometimes allowed to do horrible things to good people so the judgments of Heaven against them may be just. So that people with wicked hearts don’t slide by because God always stopped them from acting on that wickedness. Sometimes the blood of the innocent is required to stand as a witness against their evil.”

Harper was silent as he digested that for a moment. “Sounds like something Rev would have told me.”

“Rev?”

“An old friend, a Wayist, like you. I used to go talk to him sometimes, about stuff like this.”

“He sounds like a wise person.”

“Yeah, he is,” Harper replied firmly. “Still doesn’t seem very fair, though,” he said, softly, getting the conversation back on topic. “Innocent people having to suffer to prove others’ evilness.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Simon agreed and then was forced to stop as another round of coughing shook his whole frame. Once it passed, he gathered enough breath to speak again. “There is the other school of thought as well, Seamus. That good people sometimes have to pass through bad things to find out what they’re made of. Perhaps this is our ‘refining fire,’ so to speak.”

Harper snorted slightly. “Fire’s getting a little too hot for me, then. I want out.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Seamus,” Simon warned gently.

*****

From a few feet away, Dylan wrapped his blanket around his shoulders and pretended to pay attention to Dakin and Peter playing guessing games with Twig while really listening intently to Harper and Simon’s conversation. He hadn’t realized how low Harper’s spirits were sinking again. It kind of hurt that Harper had turned to Simon instead of him, but at the same time he understood it. When it came to spiritual things, the captain was pretty much just as lost and angry and confused as his engineer was.

The two fell silent, each thinking and just trying to endure the cold. Dylan turned away and let his gaze drift aimlessly around the camp. It’s not like there was anything new to see. Same dirt, same ugly buildings, same miserable people, same Ubers harassing the female servers…

Dylan’s head jerked back around and his eyes narrowed. One of the nameless Nietzschean guards that kept the camp functioning and helped make their lives pathetic was getting a little too touchy with one of the few female slaves. She was thin, pale, and obviously terrified. As the man backed her up against a barrack wall, her frightened eyes found Dylan’s and locked on them. Dylan’s breath froze. Those eyes…they were so scared…so real…so pleading…so like Sara’s. Suddenly, his vision shifted. The woman was not some unknown soul, she was Sara. She was his mother. She was his sisters. She was every woman he’d ever loved. 

He snapped.

The blanket fell forgotten from Dylan’s shoulders as he surged to his feet, swearing hotly. Every head in their small group swiveled toward him but he didn’t even notice.

“Dylan?” Harper called, struggling to his own feet when he got no answer. Twig suddenly nestled up to his side, his small hand slipping into Harper’s good one.

Dylan didn’t even hear his engineer. He was across the compound and pulling the Niet off the cowering, crying slave girl before he even thought about it, chains clanking harshly.

“Leave her alone!” he snarled, spinning the guard around and smashing his fist into the man’s face. The guard was so startled that a prisoner would actually hit him that the captain got in several more good blows before he knew what was happening. Terrified, the girl took the opportunity to flee.

Standing with his friends, Harper heard their sharp intakes of breath and muttered curses. “What’s he doing?” he demanded.

“One of the Ubers was tormenting a young woman,” Simon answered quietly. “Dylan just attacked him…”

“Oy!” Harper hissed, a harsh word slipping through his teeth. “Captain Terrific’s back, with lousy timing as usual.” He pushed Twig at Simon. “Whatever happens, keep him here,” he ordered the older man darkly. “Take him inside if you have to.” Then, before he could really think about what he was doing, Harper set out through the darkness toward the sound of striking fists.

“Dylan!” he yelled harshly, needing to get his friend’s attention quickly. “Stop! Just stop! You’re gonna get yourself killed! You’re gonna get us all killed!”

Dylan’s flying fists were fueled by months of pent up frustrations and rage so that he hardly knew what he was doing, but he paused when he heard Harper shouting at him and turned toward his friend. The boy was shuffling hesitantly toward him, alone, with his hands stretched out before him in a desperate attempt to find objects before he could walk right into them. The captain looked at the almost unconscious guard in his hands and realized what he’d done. Even if it had been the right thing to do morally, he’d just been incredibly, incredibly stupid.

Suddenly, Dylan heard shouting and the sound of many pounding feet. Hands grabbed him, guards surrounded him, threw him to the ground. A fury of fists and boots and curses started to rain down on him from all directions. As he tried to curl up on himself in the dirt, he saw other guards seizing Harper and dragging him over.

“No, wait!” he gasped. “He wasn’t even involved. Don’t punish him, it was all me!” Not one of the Nietzscheans even listened to him and the blows left Dylan too breathless to speak again.

“Stop!”

The guards reluctantly ceased and backed away slightly as Marcus pushed his way through.

Dylan slowly levered himself to a sitting position, wiping the blood running from his mouth with the back of his hand. He glanced quickly to his friend and was relieved to see that Harper appeared shaken and confused, but unharmed.

“He attacked one of ours,” a guard grumbled darkly. “Why did you stop us? He’s going to get more than just a beating before the day’s done.”

“He stays alive,” Marcus shot back sharply. “Commander Felix’s orders!” 

The young guard crouched down before Dylan. “That was an incredibly stupid thing to do, Captain,” he whispered angrily. “And there is nothing I can do to stop what’s coming.” Then he rose quickly and spun on his heels.

Somewhat forgotten in the middle of the action, Harper listened carefully, his gut twisting with anxiety. He breathed gratefully when he heard Marcus order that Dylan live, but didn’t let go of his panic. He knew first hand that death was not the worst punishment out there.

“On your feet, slave,” Marcus said firmly, staring coldly at the captain.

Painfully, Dylan climbed to his feet. Next to him, two Nietzscheans still gripped Harper tightly. His head was lowered, but Dylan knew that was because the boy was listening hard, desperately trying to follow what was going on. All around, the other slaves in the camp watched wide-eyed and fearful, frozen in place at the edges of the commons. Simon still stood next to their barrack, clutching a terrified Twig to him gently while Peter and Dakin watched from a few feet ahead of them, expressions of helpless anger on their faces. Dylan sighed and squared his shoulders, bringing his eyes back to Marcus.

Nearly every guard in the camp was there by now, and a deep rumble of discontent and mutiny was growing.

“So, the piece of trash gets to assault us and then go unpunished?” someone shouted hotly.

“I never said there wouldn’t be punishment,” Marcus growled. “But it’s not your place to decide that punishment, or do you think yourself fit to take charge while Captain Adoniram is gone?”

The hateful glares continued as Marcus waited for a moment, but when the silence held, he turned back to Dylan.

“Both Commander Felix and Captain Adoniram anticipated that you would cause trouble,” the young Nietzschean said, his voice emotionless. “Thought you’d get to it a bit sooner, but they knew you’d get around to it eventually. Only Felix’s orders that you remain alive for as long as possible save you from the hanging you rightly deserve.” He let that sink in for a while as he gestured to another guard, whispering for him to go fetch something. “Felix gave somewhat specific instructions for punishment should something like this occur.” He stared straight into Dylan’s eyes, unblinking, and the captain got the distinct impression he was trying to tell him something. He also felt his insides freeze up with fear.

Then the guard broke the gaze and coolly turned to the Nietzscheans holding Harper. “Bring the little one here and lay him on the ground.” 

Harper squeaked with surprise as he was abruptly manhandled forward, the change of attention from Dylan to him a complete surprise.

“What!” Dylan cried as he watched the guards push Harper to his stomach on the hard earth. He was beyond mad now, beyond furious… He was seeing red. “He didn’t do anything! Leave him –”

“Silence!” Marcus roared, cutting through his protests. “Of course he didn’t do anything! You did! You lash out, you break the rules, and he takes the punishment! Do you get it now, _Captain_!”

He got it. Got it like a shot to the heart.

All he could do was stand there and watch as one of the guards kicked Harper’s feet out straight and stood on the chain between them, immobilizing his legs. Another did the same with Harper’s hands, leaving him face down in the dirt, his whole body stretched out and exposed. The engineer just closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, not sure what was coming but knowing he wouldn’t like it.

A Nietzschean approached Marcus and handed him something. The young guard nodded, then turned back to the captain. For a moment, his voice sounded almost sad and his eyes were laced with pity. “In this camp, slaves have no rights and nothing goes unpunished. You should have learned that by now.” 

Then he shifted and Dylan finally saw what he was holding: a sleek wooden club, much like a baseball bat from Ancient Earth. Without warning, he brought the club down hard on Harper’s left hand.

Harper couldn’t stop the scream that ripped from his throat as, out of nowhere, pain exploded through his crippled hand. Even worse was the sound of the badly healed, delicate bones crunching again; not even his own screams couldn’t block it out. He wanted to curl up and bring the injured limb to his chest, but he couldn’t. He was held down so he couldn’t even move.

Dylan gasped in shock as his friend screamed. Instinct made him lurch forward, but three Nietzscheans were instantly on him, holding him back. “Stop!” he yelled, straining against them, his eyes flashing. “Just leave him alone!”

Marcus just looked at him with an unreadable expression while Harper’s screams died to whimpers. Then the guard turned away, raising the club again.

Twice more the club fell on the battered hand, until Harper was left sobbing in the dirt, curled up in fetal position once the guards finally released him, his broken hand cradled to his body. Dylan had struggled so hard he was exhausted and his throat raw from yelling, but it hadn’t done any good.

Silently, Marcus handed the club back, then, ignoring Harper, walked right up to Dylan. “Do you get it now, Captain? Do you understand just how much of his safety rests in your hands?” he whispered fiercely.

Numb with rage and shock, Dylan nodded.

“Put him in the box,” Marcus then said out loud, gesturing to the guards holding the captain. “Let him ponder on this for a week or so. Everyone else,” he yelled darkly, finally addressing the rest of the camp still staring in horror, “go to your barracks! Free time’s over!”

Completely helpless, Dylan was forced to leave Harper lying there, still sobbing, as he was pulled away toward the main building. Refusing to go willingly, he dragged his feet and glanced back over his shoulder at the rest of his friends, glad to see that Simon and Twig were nowhere in sight. Peter threw him a grim look.

“We’ll look after ‘im,” the other slave called firmly, nodding solemnly to the captain as he gestured to Harper.

Grateful, Dylan nodded back, and then he was pulled around a corner and everyone disappeared from his view.

*****

Pain swallowed Harper. He knew he was sobbing in a heap on the ground, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t do anything but hug his hand to his body and wish for the hurting to stop. He was completely unaware of anything else going on around him, so he was startled when he felt a hand touch his shoulder lightly. Instinctively, he flinched.

“Seamus?”

The voice sounded familiar. He sucked in a great gasp and tried to calm his breathing.

“Seamus? Can ya ‘ear me?”

Despite his efforts to shrink away, the hands stayed, touching his face and arms, and Harper realized they were gentle and not hurting. Through the haze of anguish, the young man gradually understood the voice calling him.

“Seamus! Come on, mate, stay with me.”

“Dylan?” Harper whimpered, pain still clouding his senses.

“No. It’s Peter. Just let me ‘elp ya to our barrack an’ I’ll explain.”

The hands gently gripped his shoulders, and Harper let them pull him up until he was sitting. Out of desperation, he reached out to clutch Peter’s arm with his good hand, trying to ground himself in the dark and moaned when the movement jerked his shattered limb.

“Don’t move it, Seamus,” Peter cautioned quickly.

“Can’t help it,” Harper breathed. “Attached to the other.” Gathering his scattered wits as Peter helped him to his feet, he forced himself to ride through the pain and try to function. “Where’s Dylan?” he ground out through clenched teeth.

“Took ‘im away,” Peter answered shortly. “Now walk with me ‘fore they take you away, too.”

Harper hurt too much to argue. Weakly, he let Peter lead him forward, shuffling his chained feet along the ground until he felt the slight change in temperature from frigid to chilly that told him they were inside. “Where’s Dylan?” he repeated desperately as the bars clanged shut behind them.

“Marcus threw ‘im in lockdown for a while,” Peter finally answered.

“But he’s okay, right?” Harper pressed stubbornly, clinging to Peter to stay upright.

“Yeah, when they took ‘im ‘e was fine. They’ll keep ‘im alive.”

“And Twig? He didn’t see that did he?”

“No,” Peter hurried to assure him. “Simon took ‘im in when things went south. Didn’t see nothin’, but it won’t take ‘im long to figure it out…”

“S’okay, as long as he didn’t see it…” Harper slurred, and then, now that he knew where everyone was, he let the encroaching blackness take him. His knees folded up and he was only vaguely aware of Peter yelling his name as his consciousness fled.

*****

Harper woke suddenly. One instant he was deep asleep and the next he was completely awake, his hand throbbing mercilessly. The barrack around him was silent except for the small sounds that told him it was night and the other prisoners were asleep. He was chilly, but not as cold as he could have been. Someone had covered him with several blankets, and there was something oddly warm and comforting pressed up against his side, curled right next to him. Twig, he realized after a moment. The boy’s head was resting partly on his chest. He opened his blind eyes and carefully raised his uninjured hand to touch the child’s face.

“He refused to leave you.”

Harper turned his head slowly toward Simon’s quiet, rough voice.

“We tried but he wouldn’t budge.”

“He’s fine. I don’t mind,” Harper replied softly. “You should be asleep though. You’ll get sicker.”

“Every time I lay down my lungs fill up and I start coughing,” Simon admitted. “I figured I might as well put my wakefulness to a good use.”

Harper didn’t buy that explanation one bit as he could literally hear the deep weariness in the man’s voice, but he knew it would be useless to argue with his Wayist friend. He sighed, but didn’t press it. Instead, he carefully tried to lift his injured hand and assess the damage. To his surprise, he found it incased in something and hard to move.

“What the…” he spoke, a little louder than he meant to, attempting to raise his hand off the blankets and ignoring the pain it caused.

“Peter and Dakin cannibalized some loose boards from one of the bunks and a worn-out blanket to make you a splint. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.”

“So, what’s the verdict?” Harper asked wearily, figuring his friends would have examined his hand as they tended it while he was lost in the land of oblivion.

“It’s badly crushed, again,” Simon answered honestly. “But probably no worse off than it was last time it was broken.”

“Sweet…” Harper grumbled, rolling his head back to face where the ceiling would have been if he could see it. “That makes me feel so much better. And here I was just starting to think that maybe Marcus was on our side.”

“It could have been much worse you know…”

“Are you saying I should thank the guy for turning my hand into mush?” Harper let anger seep into his voice.

“No, I’m just asking you to think carefully. Marcus had to exact punishment, and had to follow Adoniram’s standing orders, or he would have had mass chaos on his hands. There are a lot of other things, more painful and deadly things, he could have done to you, and if he’d stepped aside and let the others take over they _would_ have happened. As it is, you’re left with a very painful and very broken hand, but it was already crippled, there are no open wounds for infection, and he didn’t touch you anywhere else…”

“Are you trying to justify what he did?”

Harper heard Simon sigh which turned into a long, labored bout of coughing. Finally, the other man could speak again and he answered quietly. “Seamus, nothing that is done here can be justified. I’m just asking you to keep your head and your perspective and not dismiss something outright.”

“Kinda hard to keep your perspective when you can’t even see,” the engineer seethed quietly. “Which, I might remind you, is also the fault of these goons you’re asking me to think kindly of.”

Simon didn’t rise to the bait in his friend’s words, knowing they were said out of pain and understandable anger. “Just think about it.” He might have said more, but Twig chose that moment to crawl out of sleep’s clutches and join them.

“Harper?” he asked, his groggy voice laced with worry and panic as he raised his head off Harper’s chest.

“Sh, kiddo. It’s all right. We’re just talking.”

“Are you okay? Simon says the Ubers hurt you again, and they took Dylan away.”

“Yeah, they hurt me a little, but I’ll be fine, Twig. And I’m sure Dylan will be back bugging us again really soon,” Harper tried to assure the little boy, knowing there was no way he could beat around the bush for him, not here in this death camp, but still wanting to soften the blow. Gently, he reached out with his right hand and pushed the little slave’s head back down on his chest, running his thumb across the scratchy stubble that covered his shaved head and trying to avoid bashing him with the dangling chain. “Just go back to sleep and we’ll talk about it in the morning. All of us should go back to sleep,” he added pointedly, turning in Simon’s direction.

“Now that I know you really are planning on staying with us, sleep does sound nice,” Simon agreed, “if you don’t mind me sharing your corner with the two of you. I’m too tired to climb into my bunk tonight.”

“Sure,” Harper said, the effort of hiding his pain evident in the exhaustion in his voice. “Pull up some straw. There’s bedbugs enough for all of us.”

“Think about what I said, Seamus,” Simon said quietly, settling back against the wall so he wouldn’t have to actually lay down, “but don’t hold it against me. Sometimes we can’t always see the bigger picture…”

“And some of us can’t see at all, Simon,” Harper replied bitterly. “But we can talk more about your ‘turn the other cheek, refiner’s fire’ stuff tomorrow,” Harper said shaking his head. “Hurt too much tonight. Gonna sleep now.”

Beside him, Twig snuggled back under the blankets and Harper gritted his teeth so he wouldn’t cry out when the motion jiggled his broken hand. He’d gladly put up with a little discomfort before he’d ask the small boy to leave. Soon, the child was sleeping, and his soft breathing lulled Harper past the agony he was in until his own eyes slid closed once again. 

After a while, neither of them even heard Simon’s deep coughs anymore.


	51. Chapter 50

**Chapter 50**

_... I was reminded of a remark of Willa Cather's, that you can't paint sunlight, you can only paint what it does with shadows on a wall. If you examine a life, as Socrates has been so tediously advising us to do for so many centuries, do you really examine a life, or do you examine the shadows it casts on other lives? Entity or relationships? Objective reality or the vanishing point of a multiple perspective exercise? Prism or the rainbows it refracts? And what if you're the wall? What if you never cast a shadow or rainbow of your own, but have only caught those cast by others?_

\- Wallace Stegner

*****

The next day passed by in a haze of pain and frustration for Harper. Despite the make-shift splint his friends had fashioned for him, his hand hurt dreadfully. His agony didn’t buy him a day off, however, and tasks already awkward because of his blindness were next to impossible. Work in the mine was torture, of course, but even little things were difficult. He couldn’t hold his dishes, could hardly feed himself. Simon tried to help, and Twig flitted around like a worried shadow. The little boy was rarely out of reaching distance when they weren’t working, and Harper could feel his fear and worry and sadness through his quietness. Twig had been uncharacteristically quiet for far too long, since their stay in the hospital barrack and all the pain and suffering he’d endured there. Harper found he missed the tiny slave’s laugh.

As he shuffled blindly through the dinner line, barely clutching his metal dishes with his good hand and listening to Simon’s horrible, hacking coughs in front of him, Harper felt very small, very helpless, and very lost and forgotten.

He desperately missed Dylan and wished he were here. He was tired of being strong and brave and just wanted someone to take care of him, like he tried to take care of Twig.

*****

Dylan shifted around slightly, trying to find a position that allowed him to encourage blood back into his legs. The sound of his chains clinking was strangely reassuring in the dark, empty void. The captain listened until it died into silence again and then returned to his former task: trying to recall the High Guard officer’s manual from memory.

He made it to “Proper Greetings for Than Ambassadors” before his stomach growled loudly and painfully and distracted him. When he finally managed to push fantasies of pizza and apple pie and fresh bread out of his mind, he realized he couldn’t remember if he was on “Glory and honor to your hive” or “May your mating group always produce healthy grubs.” He gave up, letting his head fall back against the stone wall with a sigh. The officer’s manual was boring anyway.

“The box” had turned out to be pretty much just that; a small, box-like cell deep in the lowest level of the main building. It was roughly five paces long and if his hands had been free he would have been able to stand in the center and easily touch both walls, probably with his elbows still bent. If he’d had to guess, he’d put it at about three feet wide. When he stood up, he had to hunch over and even then his shoulders and head banged on the rough ceiling. He couldn’t stand up straight and he couldn’t stretch out to lie down either, leaving him very cramped. He wouldn’t quite admit to claustrophobia, but ask him again tomorrow and he might change his mind.

He hadn’t suffocated yet and it was uncomfortably cold, so he assumed air was getting in somehow, but light wasn’t. For the first time he had an inkling of what it was like for Harper. He’d lost track of all sense of time, and the pitch black, hushed silence was starting to get to him. Every little noise, every movement of air startled him, left him guessing what was out there that he couldn’t see. He wondered how Harper had stayed mostly sane during the seven or eight months they’d been prisoners and he’d been trapped in darkness.

Thoughts of his young friend brought a deep welling of grief and guilt surging up inside of him. He cringed as he remembered Harper sobbing on the ground, clutching his broken hand to his chest, punished for something he hadn’t even done. Dylan felt like scum for that. He should’ve known they’d punish Harper instead of him, but no, he’d let his foolish need to protect the universe take over and gave the Nietzscheans an excuse to inflict even more pain on his friend. All things considered, being stuck in a stone box with nothing to do but ponder his stupidity in the dark was the least he deserved. He had it easy.

He just really, really hoped Harper was okay, that the others were watching out for him, and that he wouldn’t completely hate him for what had happened if he ever got out of this black tomb.

*****

The sound of harsh coughing dragged Harper from his sleep. He opened his eyes and turned his head, careful not to disturb his hand. In the two days since it had been re-broken, his hand had settled into a deep, dull ache that only flared to torturous when moved, or touched, or bumped, or breathed on… At this point, Harper would have almost been grateful if someone had offered to just cut the curled, claw-like, useless appendage off, but he didn’t say that out loud. No need to give the Ubers any ideas. They were sadistic enough without his help.

The coughing came again and Harper realized with deep concern that Simon sounded extremely weak tonight. Bracing himself for the pain he knew would come, he sat up. Gently, he slid out from under the blanket and tucked it back around Twig who was sleeping next to him, whispering for the boy to go back to sleep. With Dylan still gone, Twig and Simon had taken to sharing his pile of straw at night. _To keep an eye on their friend_ , they said. Twig he believed. He could hardly scoot over without feeling the child’s small hand clutching his shirt or arm. Harper didn’t know if he was trying to act as his guide in Dylan’s absence, or making sure he didn’t go and leave him, too, but whatever it was Harper didn’t mind. He was feeling more than a little lost himself these days. With Simon the engineer suspected true kindness and a desire to help, but he also thought the man was using worry for Harper as an excuse to hide how truly sick he was, and that he lacked the strength to even climb into his bunk anymore. Whatever the reason, Harper didn’t complain. He hated the thought of lying there at night, blind and alone. But that didn’t stop him from worrying about what that implied about Simon’s failing health.

Which was why he dragged himself from the slight warmth of his blanket and crawled over to Simon’s side, reaching carefully with his good hand through the darkness until he felt the other man’s skeletal form.

“Simon?” he whispered. “You okay?”

The muffled coughing continued for a long time before Simon was able to answer. Harper was shocked by the wispiness of his friend’s voice when it came.

“You should go back to sleep, Seamus.”

Harper shook his head. A strange chill crept through him as he realized what the others had known and he’d always suspected, but tried to hide from. He reached out and found Simon’s hand.

“You’re not okay, are you?” he asked brokenly.

“No, Seamus, I’m not,” Simon admitted quietly, calmly. “I believe I’m dying.”

“But it’s just a cough!” Harper whispered desperately, slipping into denial again. “Just a cough…”

Simon squeezed his right hand weakly. “Seamus, it’s much more than a cough. I can feel it inside me, in my bones, in my lungs, stealing my breath and my strength – my life.”

“You were better yesterday! You said so yourself!”

The Wayist sounded sad when he spoke. “I lied to you. I’m sorry, and I pray God and you can forgive me for that, but I didn’t want to cause you more pain than you were already in. I realize now I should have just told you that I’m not going to get better, my time is almost up.”

Agony that had nothing to do with his broken hand filled him, and Harper closed his eyes, knowing it was true. His friend’s voice was getting softer and slower with every word he spoke. He was too weak even to try and hush his coughs now.

“Don’t grieve for me, Seamus,” Simon continued warmly after a moment. “I’m not afraid to die. The Divine has set a plan for my life and I’ve followed it. This is only the next step in that plan, and with death, I’ll regain my freedom.”

“I don’t want you to die,” Harper whispered in a tiny voice, not caring if he sounded like a six year old. He remembered how Simon had been the first one to show them any kindness, any compassion, in this horrible place. How the man had taken his blindness and other handicaps in stride and always been there for him, helping however he could, giving so freely of what he had, in a place where he hadn’t had anything to begin with. Even after he’d become so sick, Simon wouldn’t stop helping. It was Simon who had introduced them to the rest of their small circle of friends, had stuck up for him many times, had comforted him when his thoughts turned too dark… He didn’t want to lose him.

“Maybe…” Harper hesitated, his continued anger and pain arguing with his care for his friend. He swallowed and forced the words out. “We can ask Marcus for medicine,” he said, pushing the fact that Marcus had crushed his hand not three days earlier aside. “He helped me once, gave me medicine when I needed it. Maybe he can get some for you, then you won’t have to die!” He started to climb to his feet, intent on finding a way to attract their guard’s attention even though it was night and there were no guards around, but Simon clutched his good hand desperately and wouldn’t let him rise.

“Stop, Seamus. Stay with me, please. You won’t find him at this hour, and it wouldn’t matter if you did.”

Reluctantly, Harper obeyed. “But why? You’re the one who told me to look beyond the obvious, try to see the whole picture. Why won’t you even try?”

Simon’s voice was a faint whisper by now, barely there. “Because he already offered, Seamus, and I refused.”

“What!” Harper cried. “Why?” he demanded again, the catch in his throat turning his words from a yell to a sob.

“This is my time. The few medicines he would be able to offer me would do no good, the generous gift would be wasted on me. He’s as trapped in this system as we are and his resources limited. Those very same medicines that would be useless to me, only prolonging the inevitable, might save the life of some other poor soul.”

“You deserve to live as much as anyone, Simon,” Harper protested softly.

“The time or manner of our death isn’t up to any of us,” Simon explained gently. “But,” he added, “it’s really not that bad. I’m tired, Seamus. Tired of being a slave, and I’m ready to go. I’m ready to be _free_ again.” For the first time, Harper heard the deep longing and weariness in his friend’s voice. Simon never complained, always bore his life in the slave camp with patience and long-suffering, but Harper suddenly realized that he was as human as the rest of them, and he ached to have it end just as much as they did – to be free.

The engineer drew in a small breath and hung his head. “But…I’ll miss you.”

He could almost hear the sad smile on Simon’s face at his words. “I’ll miss you, too, my friend.” He suddenly felt a soft hand on his emaciated chest just above his heart, pressing lightly. “But I’ll stay with you here. As long as you and Twig and Dylan and the others are alive to remember me, I’m not really dead. I’ll live in you, because you’re my friends. And you will live, Seamus. I know it; I can feel it as deeply as I can feel the sickness in myself. There are too many people who care about you and have cared about you; their love protects you. You’re a good person with much yet to do. I don’t think you will spend your life in this camp as a slave. Hold on to your faith, and your hope, and don’t give up yet, please?”

He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to tell his friend he was afraid his faith was already shattered beyond repair, his hope of release and freedom dead. So he simply said nothing, but for the first time since that night in their cell on Felix’s ship when he’d accepted his lost sight, Harper felt warm tears leak from the corners of his eyes and trickle down his hollow cheeks.

The killing coughs returned, gripping Simon cruelly, and Harper could only listen helplessly, hearing his friend’s strength and life ebb away right in front of him. He was startled when, after a few minutes, he felt a small form climb silently into his lap, mindful of his crushed hand. He could tell Twig was crying softly as well, completely aware of what was happening around him. The little boy snuggled as close as Harper’s chains would allow him, seeking comfort, and Harper let him, needing that solace as much as Twig did. Harper unconsciously moved his body to rock him slightly, but never let go of Simon’s hand.

The coughs gradually died off but Simon’s breathing remained harsh and labored. “Seamus?” the Wayist said after a moment, obviously struggling.

“What, Simon?” Harper choked out, really crying now. It was as if a dam had burst in his heart and tears he’d been holding inside for months were breaking out.

“I want you to have something.” Simon suddenly withdrew his hand from Harper’s grip. A second later, Harper felt an odd object pressed into his palm. It felt fragile and he moved his fingers carefully as he explored it, realizing almost instantly what it was.

“Your glasses? Why? They won’t do me any good, and you still need them!”

“Seamus,” Simon breathed patiently, weakly. “I _don’t_ need them anymore. I want you to have them to remember me by, but more importantly, I want you to keep them so you don’t give up hope. Keep them and maybe someday your friends will find a way to fix your eyes and you’ll see again. You never know, you might actually need them.”

“Thanks,” he mumbled. Not having anywhere else to put them that they couldn’t get broken, and wanting to keep his one good hand free, Harper hesitantly stuck them on his face. It felt weird, feeling the pressure of glasses on his nose and ears, but seeing nothing.

“Twig?” he heard Simon say next after another torturous bout of coughing. The young slave sniffed loudly before he answered in a wobbly voice.

“Yeah?”

“I need you to do something for me? I need you to look after Seamus, here? Can you do that? He gets himself into too much trouble”

Twig’s head nodded against Harper’s chest and he sucked in a deep breath.

“Don’t worry about me,” Simon rasped, his voice almost gone. “Remember what I told you about Heaven?” Twig nodded again, hiccupping from his sobs. “Then you know I’ll be fine. Be a good boy, okay?”

Twig tried to say something but couldn’t get the words past his sobs, so instead he just nodded for a third time.

That last comment seemed to have completely sapped Simon’s remaining strength. He fell silent as the lung-tearing coughs returned, and even after the bout passed he didn’t speak again. Harper held his hand tightly, the only comfort he could offer, and rocked Twig slowly, his own tears falling down to mingle with the little boy’s. After a while, he realized that Simon no longer responded to his grip. He listened carefully but the sound of the man’s labored breathing was absent.

“He’s gone, Twig,” Harper said softly, his voice cracking.

“His eyes are still open,” Twig whispered, breathing deeply as his body tried to regain control of his crying.

Harper shuddered, glad he couldn’t see his friend’s flat, lifeless eyes staring at him. “He’s still gone, Twig. His body’s here, but he isn’t. He just didn’t have time to close them before he left. We’ll have to do it for him.”

He tried to shift around so he could reach that far with his chained hands and not move the broken one too much, but before he could do anything else, Twig slid quietly from his lap, sniffling heavily as he wiped his nose on the back of his sleeves.

“I can do it. I know how.”

“Thanks,” Harper muttered, lowering his head at the thought that this boy who was only eleven knew how to close the eyes of the dead. 

Barely a minute later, Twig was back in his lap, crying softly into his shirt again. Awkwardly, Harper patted him on the back as his own thoughts whirled.

He felt like he should do something, say something. Before, whenever a slave had died, Simon had been there to say words over him, send him on his way and all that. Now, it was Simon’s turn and it just seemed wrong that there was no one to say anything for him. Almost unconsciously, Harper found himself dredging up long buried, kind of painful memories; his mother murmuring words over their food, his Nana sitting all the cousins down to hear them recite payers in a long dead language…

Without thought, words slipped from his tongue. “Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.”

He paused for a moment, the words feeling odd in his mouth, yet strangely familiar. Then, just as he’d done at his nana’s feet, he started over, in English this time. “Hail, Mary, full of grace; the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

“Amen,” Twig echoed quietly, sadly. Harper wasn’t exactly sure if it was the appropriate prayer for the occasion, but it was the only one he could remember so he hoped it would count. Deciding he’d better finish it off properly, he brought his right hand up hesitantly and awkwardly crossed himself, something he knew he hadn’t done for at least ten years. 

“Bye, Simon,” he whispered softly. “We’ll miss you.”

*****

With great fear in his steps, Alfred timidly approached the small, metal craft. He’d watched it for two days as he ran errands for his master in town. He’d seen the minimal crew come and go, picked out the one he assumed to be the captain. But in all that time he’d seen no Nietzscheans deal with them, or even give the dumpy ship a second glance. That fact had sealed his decision.

Heart thumping madly, he stepped up to the airlock, praying he could soon be rid of his dangerous burden.

*****

Captain Alistair “Patch” Parkington flipped the _Miss Kitty_ to autopilot and pushed his chair back with a tired sigh of satisfaction. He ran a hand through his grizzled, gray hair and beard and smiled to himself, readjusting the leather eye-patch that had given him his nickname over his dead right eye. It was always nerve racking when he made these runs to Rellim. The planet’s reputation as a ship-killer left very few pilots and captains willing to take the risk, which was okay by him as less competition meant more profit for those who actually did make it through, but it always put him and his crew on edge until they were safely back out among the stars. It was even more deeply satisfying to know that he could successfully make a run with one eye that most other pilots feared to try with two.

Of course, this run had been more profitable than expected, Patch thought with a grin, making the trip highly worthwhile. He reached a big, beefy hand into his vest pocket and pulled out the bag of jingling credits and piece of paper the timid, little man had offered him. _Such a lot of money just to deliver one short message_. He could just as easily take the money and toss the accompanying paper out the airlock, but his curiosity was piqued. He wanted to know what was so important about one little letter. _Deliver this to the commanding officer of the Andromeda Ascendant_ the jumpy man had insisted, repeating over and over that it must get to the _Andromeda_. No one sent letters anymore, actual written on paper letters, least of all to High Guard Warships. He wanted to know why.

Resisting the urge to crack the fancy wax seal and see for himself, Patch returned the folded paper to his pocket. He had a pick-up to reach in two days, but after that he decided it might be a nice time to check up on an old friend. Beka Valentine at the helm of a Galaxy Class Warship was a sight he might quite like to see. Would be killing two birds with one stone, anyway. This mystery message was just an excuse to do something he should have done a long time ago.

Mind made up, Patch patted his vest pocket as if sealing the deal and then wandered back to the galley to see if he couldn’t find enough food to fix himself a sandwich.


	52. Chapter 51

**Chapter 51**

_A level of despair is reached, where people are willing to die to punish their tormentors._

\- William Kammeraad-Campbell

*****

Harper stashed Simon’s glasses away in the corner by his dishes to keep them safe and tried to forget about the false hope the man had begged him to keep. Over the next several days his spirits sank to new levels of despair. His broken hand throbbed mercilessly and slowed down his work, leaving him with a bleeding back from extra floggings as punishment for his clumsiness. He hardly acknowledged or noticed the biting lash though; he existed in a sort of numb daze, letting Peter or Twig guide him and not really saying much at all. If Dylan or Beka or any of his former friends had been around all their warning bells would have been sounding. A silent Harper was never good. But they weren’t there and so the young man slipped more and more into his silence. Despite Twig’s clinging to him like Velcro, Harper couldn’t ever remember feeling so lost and broken and alone. Beka, Trance and his friends on Andromeda were far beyond his reach, Ethan and Simon were dead, Dylan was locked away, maybe forever, and any of his remaining friends could be taken away next, even little Twig. He felt empty; his fiery, stubborn will to survive drained away. He was tired of caring, and he just wanted it all to end.

Three days after Simon’s death, the weary engineer stumbled through the breakfast line in the chilly, pre-dawn air. He desperately missed the comfort and help of being sandwiched between Dylan and Simon in meal lines and at roll-call. Peter, Dakin, and Twig had their own assigned spots, and now that his two friends were gone, Harper was on his own in the dark. He would have hated it if he had the energy left for hate.

Someone dumped a cupful of watery gruel in his bowl and Harper shuffled forward. He wandered aimlessly in some direction for about fifteen feet and then sank to the ground. He had no idea where he was, but as he hadn’t run into anything, he didn’t care. It was cold again today and he shivered as he mechanically ate the bland breakfast. After a moment he heard and felt the others settle around him, Twig’s small body pressed right up to his side, but the engineer barely acknowledged their presence. 

He finished his dull meal and set his dishes aside, letting his head fall forward dejectedly. He hardly noticed when Dakin kindly gathered them up along with his own and took them to rinse and put away. There were still several minutes before roll-call, but he had no desire to move or do anything.

“Harper?” Twig pulled imploringly on his sleeve, his voice sad and small. “Can I hear more about Jack? You never tell me stories anymore.”

The engineer didn’t answer. He wasn’t trying to ignore the child; it was just that talking took energy he didn’t have the will to find.

“Harper, please?” Twig sounded close to tears, and Harper sighed. He remembered that the little slave had lost as many friends and family in the last few weeks as he had, but even that couldn’t pull him out of his melancholy.

“Twig, I don’t have any more stories,” he muttered, his face turned away from the boy. 

Twig stayed quiet after that.

A little while later, roll-call sounded. Twig led him to his spot and then slipped silently away. Once again, Harper felt the hollow emptiness on either side of him that spoke of his missing friends. He stood there numbly, just wishing it would all be over once and for all.

Daily formalities complete, the slaves were ordered to the mines. With no one to help him, Harper awkwardly gathered up the chain that dangled from his waist and connected to his leg irons and let the flow of bodies around him guide him in the general direction of the entrance. But six weary steps of his bloody, bare feet later and he suddenly tripped over some unseen object in his path. He went down hard, landing partly on his crippled, broken hand and a very undignified whimper escaped from his lips as agony spiked through it. He slowly shifted so he was sitting, and tears of pain filled his eyes as he cradled the broken limb to his chest and sagged forward. The rest of the prisoners surged past him, but he didn’t move and no one paused to help him.

After a while, the biting sting of the whip that he’d been expecting slashed down across his shoulders.

“Move, dog! On your feet!”

He listened to the harsh voice of the guard yelling at him but didn’t answer or get up. He just didn’t care anymore.

The whip lashed down again. “I said get up, Kludge!”

Harper simply closed his blind eyes and shook his head. “No.”

There was a moment of stunned silence as if the guard couldn’t quite believe that a slave would dare defy him.

“What did you say, little slave?” he finally growled menacingly.

“No,” Harper repeated quietly as he threw caution to the wind. He knew he would be punished severely, but he suddenly found that didn’t bother him. In fact, he secretly hoped they would just kill him and be done with it. “No. I’m through. I can’t do it anymore.”

He could sense a growing crowd around them; could feel the astonishment and fear rolling off the nervous slaves. He vaguely heard Peter and Twig nearby, begging him to stand up, but he ignored them all. He curled his legs up to his chest, rested his chin on his knees and sat there, staring off into nothing.

The months and months of tortured existence finally became too much for him and his brain just checked out of reality. He pictured the warm sands of Infinity at sunset, the huge, golden sun turning the waves to liquid fire as they lapped at the beach. He felt the cool breeze in his hair and the roughness of his surf board beneath his feet. Trance and Beka called encouragingly to him from the shore, and he smiled and waved back, then shifted his stance to prepare for the large wave that was moving in…

A hard blow to his side yanked him cruelly back from his escape and sent him toppling over in the dust again. He reluctantly returned to his dark, painful world, but still made no move to get up.

“So, our little blind slave thinks he deserves a day off, does he?”

This time Harper recognized Adoniram’s voice but he didn’t reply. The Nietzschean captain must have been called while he was daydreaming. From the sound of the heavy, full silence that surrounded him, he figured the rest of the camp had been recalled as well. Other than a passing wish that Twig wouldn’t have to witness what he knew was coming, Harper found he really couldn’t summon any emotions at all, except for maybe a little relief.

Adoniram kicked at him with the toe of his boot. “Have you gone mute and deaf as well?” he demanded, angrily. “I asked you a question.”

Harper stayed silent.

“Months of speaking when you shouldn’t and now you finally learn to hold your tongue, only to use it for more defiance?” 

_Not defiance_ , Harper thought as Adoniram toed his unresisting body like one would a reeking carcass. _Just apathy_. 

A bated silence filled the camp for several long minutes before the Nietzschean spoke again. 

“Secure him to the flogging post and then go fetch the Kludge doctor. Tell him to bring his bag.”

Harper offered no resistance as he was pulled to his feet and dragged over to a post sunk deep into the ground. Rough hands whirled him to face the wood and yanked his chained hands above his head. For a moment his hearing faded as the harsh treatment of his broken hand sent him to the edges of consciousness. By the time he managed to ride through the pain and get his mind back on track, he was bound to the post and Adoniram was already speaking to him again.

“…been too indulgent for too long already. You should have been taught a lesson long ago.” 

The rag that Harper called a shirt was already mostly shredded in the back from multiple floggings, only held together by a few threads, so when a cold hand grabbed it at the base of his neck and yanked, it gave way with pitifully little resistance. The weary engineer simply leaned his head forward and let his forehead rest against the rough wood of the post he was tied to, standing still as his shirt was ripped off and Adoniram’s sneering voice washed over him.

“You’re a spoiled brat of a Kludge who refuses to accept his station in life. I’m going to personally punish you this time, and maybe after seventy lashes you’ll finally figure it out.”

 _Seventy lashes_? Harper knew there was no way his weak, starved body could stand up to that kind of severe abuse, and strangely that didn’t bother him. For the first time in his existence he wasn’t fighting tooth and nail to stay alive, instead he just felt an odd sense of relief that no matter how much the next several minutes hurt, it would _all_ be over soon.

Time seemed to stretch out in slow motion as he waited there in his darkness for the first blow to fall. He could sense the sorrowful, heavy expectance of the watching rows of slaves. He heard the sound of muffled sobs from nearby and felt a spike of guilt as he knew it was Twig and the boy was waiting to watch yet another of the people he loved die. In the loaded silence he could also almost imagine Adoniram rolling up his sleeves, grasping the handle of the offered whip firmly, surveying his naked, scarred back for the best place to carve out his signature…

And then the waiting was over and Harper shattered the strange silence with his screams.

*****

One-time doctor Bartholomew Kesler watched the young man sag heavily against the chains that bound him, his body no longer able to support his own weight, and blinked furiously to keep back the tears that threatened to crest his eyes and fall down his wrinkled, worn cheeks. How it hurt to watch this, to stand there and do nothing, be party to this torture by his silence. He’d seen many, many atrocious things in his years as a slave in this camp, but no matter how he tried to harden himself to it he could never stop the pain it caused him to watch, but this…this was like a knife to the gut to witness. The young man who refused to give up despite overwhelming hardships had renewed his faith in life and humanity, and it hurt to see the one who had helped him find hope again lose his.

Bartholomew heard the sound of badly stifled sobs and discreetly glanced around. About three rows back in one of the blocks of slaves he saw the little boy he’d treated so carefully, the one who had clung with open love and admiration to the young man currently being punished so severely. Twig’s face was completely wet with tears, and his little body shook with the effort to hold back his wails and cries. The doctor’s heart broke at the sight and the thought of what watching this must be doing to that poor child, and he found he had to look away again, unable to bear the open grief he saw.

Not that the other sight was any better. The old slave watched as the engineer’s head fell forward, his eyes closed. They were only twenty-six lashes into his punishment and already the boy was either unconscious or close to it. The medic in him screamed that there was no way the boy could survive much more of this. Adoniram noticed this as well and let the hand holding the whip drop to his side. He gestured to one of his guards and was handed a metal bucket brimming with liquid. Bartholomew cringed, knowing exactly what that bucket held and the agony it would induce. 

Adoniram doused the dangling slave, and the boy screamed as the saltwater invaded the open wounds and brought him harshly back to the world. As the young man struggled to his feet, gasping, the doctor clenched his fists and tried to tell himself that at least some good would come from that cruelty; the saltwater might stave off infection.

Doctor Kesler watched the engineer forcefully control his cries and then let his head drop forward again, submissive. For the first time, the doctor realized the boy just wanted it to be done, that he was waiting to die. Deep sadness filled the kind, old man as he observed the Nietzschean captain step up to his prisoner and grasp him roughly by his bleeding shoulders.

“I know what you’re doing,” the man said right in Harper’s ear, his voice filled with cruel taunting. “You want to die. You think by dying you can end your pitiful existence and suffering and rob me of my fun all at once. What is that Kludge saying, _kill two birds with one stone_? Well, I’m sorry to tell you that is not what’s going to happen. Teaching you a lesson serves no purpose if you don’t live to learn it.”

He stepped away, gesturing for the slave doctor to approach. “Give him enough drugs and stimulants to survive the procedure,” he ordered callously, “but don’t worry about keeping him awake. I have effective methods for that,” he smiled, glancing at the bucket that had been refilled.

Doctor Kesler moved up beside where Harper stood with his head lowered. He hated his inability or lack of courage to refuse his orders, but what actually shamed him more was the spike of gladness he felt. He in no way wanted to cause the young slave more pain, and he knew he would suffer horrendously before this was over, but he really didn’t want to see the boy die and was grateful Adoniram had ordered him to take measures so that he didn’t. 

With care, he prepared the first syringe filled with drugs. He tapped it once to make sure the bubbles were gone then searched the boy’s body for the least abused place to administer it.

“I’m so terribly sorry, Mr. Harper,” he whispered as softly as he could as he leaned in close.

“Just do what he said and get it over with,” he heard the young man croak back with lips that bled from where he’d bitten through them. He sounded like his last hope had just been shattered, and Doctor Kesler sighed with deep sorrow as he settled the needle against the boy’s shoulder and pushed it in as gently as he could. As he readied the second injection, a moment of rebellion seized him and he slipped in a small dose of highly forbidden pain medication along with the stimulant. It wouldn’t do much, but the boy deserved every bit of help he could get.

The second syringe emptied, Adoniram gripped the whip firmly in his fingers and ordered him to move back once more. 

“Shall we continue, then, little slave?” he mocked, closing the space between him and his prisoner again.

“Whatever you want,” came the bone-weary, despondent reply. Adoniram grinned and raised the whip, counting off stroke number twenty-seven as the young man cried out sharply in pain, and Doctor Kesler knew this was going to be a horribly long morning.

*****

It was the cold that finally woke him. The cold and the pain that coursed through him each time his body reacted to it with a shiver, but gradually, Harper became aware of other things as well. The rough gravel digging into his face and shoulder, the dull, throbbing ache in his left hand, the after-taste of salt on his lips, and the fire of agony burning across his back.

It was at least several minutes before he was able to even consider a task so monumental as turning over, and then when he finally tried it, he was brought up short by a harsh jerk around his neck. Memories that seemed rather foggy and distant flooded back.

_“…wanted to sit down so badly, now you get to. See how a couple of days and a night in the open affect your attitude. Consider it a vacation. Maybe I’ll even feed you.”_

He remembered now what had been described to him in giddy detail and gave up trying to roll over, sagging back onto his side in the dirt with a groan. Adoniram had pretty much staked him out to be on display for a few days. His slave collar was attached to a chain that was in turn locked to a steel ring fixed into the ground. He could lie down next to it, or sit up at its base, but that was the limit of his movement. And all around him, about three feet from his reach, the sides of a metal cage had been erected; not to keep him in, but to keep the others out. The Nietzschean captain wanted to make sure he was good and alone as he pondered his situation in life. No roof though; he distinctly remembered that being mentioned. No protection from the elements of any kind. The Ubers had even taken the lousy splint off his broken hand and the rags from around his feet. All he had left were his ripped, filthy pants. And his chains, but somehow they didn’t really provide much warmth and comfort.

Plus a whole lot of hurting.

He’d received a lot of whippings in his life, but none as bad as this one. He knew without a doubt that he would have been dead if it weren’t for the doctor’s drugs. Had really hoped he would be dead when it was over, actually, but with typical Seamus Harper luck, he never got what he wanted.

A chill breeze blew across the compound and he shivered violently again, stifling a scream as the ravaged skin on his back and shoulders stretched and pulled. He had no idea how long he’d been there, but the quiet of the camp told him the other slaves were still in the mines, so it couldn’t have been more than a few hours. Besides, his pants were still soaked from his last saltwater bath, courtesy of Adoniram himself. The phrase “rubbing salt in an open wound” had taken on a whole new meaning in the last few hours.

Ignoring the sharpness of the gravel against his bare skin, he let his face sink limply to the ground again. It was a cold day, the night promised to be even colder and he was totally exposed. Maybe he would still get what he wanted before this thing was over. He certainly wasn’t going to do anything to stop it.


	53. Chapter 52

**Chapter 52**

_Close every door to me,  
Hide all the world from me  
Bar all the windows  
And shut out the light  
Do what you want with me,  
Hate me and laugh at me  
Darken my daytime  
And torture my night  
If my life were important I  
Would ask will I live or die  
But I know the answers lie  
Far from this world_

_Just give me a number  
Instead of my name  
Forget all about me  
And let me decay  
I do not matter,  
I’m only one person  
Destroy me completely  
Then throw me away_

\- Tim Rice, _Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat_

*****

“Patch!” Beka cried, barely waiting for the airlock of his ship to open before she threw her arms around the big man in a tight hug. Then she seemed to remember that she was not only more than thirty years old, but also the captain of a Glorious Heritage Class Warship. She let go of her friend and backed up, coughing with embarrassment as she ran her hands down her pants. “Um, welcome to the _Andromeda_ ,” she said, purposely ignoring Rommie’s raised eyebrow and Tyr’s amused half-smile.

“Ah, Becky!” Captain Patch Parkington laughed, a deep comfortable sort of sound that was at odds with his rough appearance. “The pig-tails and red hair might be gone, but you haven’t changed a bit, girl! And to think you’re a real captain now!”

“Hey!” Beka cried, indignantly. “I was a real captain before!” she protested. “And of a much better ship than this piece of junk!” she added, giving the _Miss Kitty_ a critical glance. “What have you been doing with her, using her for target practice?”

“Something like that,” Patch laughed again. “You know me and danger… Like a moth to the flame.”

Beka laughed. “Guess you haven’t changed that much either, have you.”

“Not really, but then again, I’m not the one with my own warship,” he winked, walking forward toward the rest who were waiting in the doorway of the docking bay. “So, are these your minions, waiting to do to your evil bidding?”

Rommie’s eyebrow almost disappeared into her hairline, and Tyr shifted to a less relaxed position, growling slightly. Trance just smiled brightly.

“No, these would be my friends and fellow officers: Rommie, the avatar of this warship, Tyr, the former Nietzschean mercenary, and Trance, the mysterious golden girl who could kill you with her little finger…”

“Ah,” Patch said, bringing a hand to his chest and not the least bit disturbed by those introductions, “A crew after my own heart. Ignatius would proud, Becky-girl,” he said, winking at Beka.

“Becky?” Rommie asked, leveling a pointed gaze at her captain.

“Don’t ask,” she muttered. “And you,” she added, punching Patch in the shoulder, “stop calling me that.”

“Aw, Beka, I think it’s cute,” Trance said with a smile, stepping forward. “I’m Trance Gemini,” she added, holding out her hand to Patch. “Glad you came to visit us. It’s always so nice to meet old friends of Beka.”

“Yes,” Tyr added, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway, “because that always works out so well for us in the end. They never try to kill us, or scam us, or blow us up. So tell me, Mr. Parkington, why exactly _are_ you here?”

Beka glared at Tyr but decided it wasn’t worth the trouble, not right now. “Don’t mind him, he’s just grumpy because…well…he’s always like that. But, I’m wondering, too. Why the sudden urge to visit. The last time I saw you in person was when you got the news Daddy had died and stopped by to see how I was.”

“It’s not every day you get to see your godchild at the helm of a warship. I figured it was time for a visit!” Patch said, still smiling. “Can’t that be reason enough?”

“For most people, yes. For you, no. Come on, I know you, Patch. True, you are the most decent and caring, not to mention somewhat moral, of my father’s old friends, but you don’t make social calls. What’s up?”

“Okay, you’re right, as usual. I’ve got something for you.”

Beka grinned broadly. “I knew it! Come on, give it here then, I love presents!”

Patch’s smile disappeared, and his face grew solemn. “Can we go somewhere else?” He didn’t say ‘more private’ but Beka caught the message just the same from his sudden change of demeanor. Her good mood faded away.

“Um, yeah. I have an office. We can go there.” She turned to her watching friends, suddenly the captain once more, the excited, bubbly girl of the past hidden. “I’ll be in my office. The rest of you stay on Command for now. Rommie, keep an eye on the science team for me, would ya? They have a new experiment and you know how they sometimes get when excited…”

“Aye, Captain,” Rommie agreed turning smartly and leaving, the others trailing after her on their own time.

“Come on,” Beka said, gesturing. “It’s this way.”

They walked in silence to the captain’s office and entered, the door sliding shut behind them. Beka walked over and stood behind the desk, turning to face Patch, her heart beating wildly. She had a pretty good idea what this must be about now, just an instinct her gut was giving her, and she suddenly wanted to make time slow down, or better yet stop. Anything to prevent what she feared she was about to hear.

It was especially hard standing there in that office. Except for a few flexi’s and other necessities of the job scattered around, the office was basically unchanged from the way it was when she inherited it. It still screamed “Dylan Hunt,” which was how she’d intentionally left it; one little act of defiance to the universe to show she still clung to hope.

Typical of the universe to have that office be the place where hope was crushed.

“Room doesn’t look much like you?” Patch commented, breaking the stillness as he took in his surroundings.

“It’s not really mine,” Beka responded stubbornly. 

“I heard about Captain Hunt. Shameful really, he was a good man. And wasn’t there another crew member with him?”

“Harper,” Beka said quietly, her voice catching. Patch opened his good eye wide in surprise.

“That skinny psycho of an engineer you picked up a few years back? The one you complained to me constantly about?”

“Yes,” Beka’s voice cracked.

“Aw, Becky, I’m so sorry! I didn’t know!”

“How could you? Last time I messaged you, I wasn’t even sure I liked the kid. Anyway, what’s done is done. What do you have for me?” she asked, unable to hide the dread in her voice.

Patch reached into his vest and pulled out an envelope, handing it to her.

“Huh?” Beka asked, puzzled. She turned it over and noticed an ornate wax seal on one side, but nothing else. “Paper? Who the heck sends paper letters these days? Where’d you get it?”

“You know I’ve been ferrying supplies for various groups, all over. Taking the jobs no one else dares try, right?”

“Yeah, you’ve always done that…”

“Ever hear of a little planet called Rellim?”

Beka’s heart stopped and she sank boneless into her chair. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I’ve heard of it.”

“Made a run there, about a week ago. Not the most pleasant place to visit, but good pay because no one else will. Anyway, was outside, checking the ship over just before take-off and this timid, little man comes up and asks if I’m going off-world. Said I was and he gave me that and a whole bag of credits to deliver it to you on the _Andromeda_. He was a Niet slave, poor guy, and it was obvious he was scared to death and more than anxious to be rid of that paper.”

Beka could hardly breathe. “What did he look like?” she whispered.

“About your height, dark skin, terribly thin, typical slave clothes and earring… Why?”

Beka’s hopes crumbled again, but she tried to hide it. “Nothing. Just thought maybe…”

Understanding dawned on Patch. “You thought it might be that Harper kid?”

“Not really, but I had to ask. So, did the guy say who this was from?”

“Marcus out of someone by somebody or other,” Patch said with a shrug. “You know, the typical Niet spiel. I’m sorry but I really didn’t listen. Those all run together after a while.”

Beka held the envelope in her hands, turning it over and over, staring at it but not really seeing it. 

“You could just open it and find out,” Patch said gently, pulling up a chair, sitting down across from her, and placing a huge hand gently on one of her own.

Beka didn’t answer, just continued to stare at the envelope. Finally, she took a big breath and broke the seal, pulling out the paper that was inside and unfolding it. 

Captain Parkington had known Beka Valentine since the day she was born, and while there had been long chapters of her life when they hadn’t exactly kept in touch, he still _knew_ her, could read her like an open book. So he watched with concern as all color drained from Beka’s face as she read the message. By the time she finished the short note, her hands were shaking too much to hold onto the paper. It fell to the desk while she stared unseeing at a corner of the room.

“Becky?” Patch questioned gently, grasping her hand. “Beka, what is it?”

“All this time…” she whispered, horror in her voice. “Ten months… They were right there, and I just didn’t look…” Her voice cracked, and she turned to Patch with a shattered look. Alarmed by the devastation he saw in her eyes, the confused captain snatched up the letter, reading it quickly.

_I am Marcus, son of Adoniram, cousin of Gaius Felix. Your officers are being held as prisoners in the slave camp on Rellim. Trust my word or not as you like, but know I take no satisfaction from seeing what my Pride has done to humans, here and elsewhere, and I have better things to do than lay traps for antiquated warships and their substitute captains. If they matter to you at all, you should come promptly. They are alive as I write this; beyond that I can guarantee nothing._

It ended there; Nietzschean through and through in its bluntness. Patch read it again, to make sure he hadn’t misunderstood, then glanced back at Beka. The blonde captain was as close to an emotional break down as he’d ever seen her.

“This is _good_ news, Becky-girl!” he stressed, forcing her to face him. “That miracle you’ve been holding out for!”

“Patch, they’ve been held as slaves! In a prison camp! For ten months…”

“But they’re alive, Beka! And no matter what’s been done to them, alive is so much better than dead!”

“But – ”

“No buts,” Patch interrupted, his face stern all at once. “You’re a Valentine, Beka. I’ve never known a Valentine to give up or fall to pieces, especially not when family was on the line. You know they’re alive and where they are. What are you waiting for? Let’s go get them! I’ll help anyway I can, but it’s gonna take at least five days to get to Rellim even if we leave right now, and it sounds like they don’t have time to waste, so you need to get moving.”

Beka seemed to hesitate between objecting and crying for a moment, but then she straightened her shoulders as an angry, determined look came across her face. 

“Rommie?” she called, knowing the avatar would respond. “Find someone to watch Command. I need you, Trance, and Tyr in my office five minutes ago!”

*****

Harper drifted in and out of consciousness, for the most part unaware of the passage of time. He had nothing to gage the hours by, and no desire to if he had. He was waiting to die, waiting for the excruciating horror of his existence to end. He didn’t much care about anything else, and he was in too much agony to try anyway. He spent his moments of lucidity riding through the pain and waiting for the blessed blackness to encompass him once more.

However, when his weary, battered body dragged him back against his will to the land of the living this time something was different. It took a long time to figure it out, much longer than it should have, but it finally came to him. Instead of the lonely, chilled silence he’d been surrounded by all day, this time there was noise. Voices, movements, footsteps…all around him, surrounding him, coming from many sides, seeping into his sensitive ears. And one very soft, hesitant voice was coming from just in front of him.

“…and so Jack told the three, little Bigs that he was gonna huff and puff and blow their ship up if they wouldn’t give him their portage. The little Bigs were mean though, and wouldn’t share, so Jack got out his magic flute and blew up their ship…”

Apparently the pain and depression hadn’t completely turned off Harper’s emotions because those quiet words went straight to his very broken heart. Twig was telling him stories, and slaughtering the tales even more than he had, but that didn’t matter. Harper had used stories to raise the child’s spirits in a place meant to crush them, and to provide comfort and hope when things were the very worst. Now the little boy cared enough about him to sit there in the cold beside his cage and return the favor – offer comfort the only way he could. It touched him deeply in a spot he’d thought was dead.

Slowly, the engineer opened his eyes and turned his head toward the boy’s voice, unable to stifle a groan. The words stopped instantly.

“Harper?”

“Twig,” Harper croaked out, his throat still raw from screaming.

He heard what sounded like a huge breath being sucked in and then Twig’s words came in a rush, the sobs barely hidden behind them. “I thought you were dead. They hurt you so bad and I had to watch them, and I can’t fit though the bars to touch you and I thought you were dead like Ethan and Simon but I wasn’t sure so I just kept telling you about Jack, like you did for me, hoping maybe you would come back!” Twig’s voice finally broke and the next words came out in a wail. “Please don’t be dead again, Harper! I don’t want to be alone like before!”

The rapid words made Harper’s brain spin in his head, and he closed his eyes again, willing it to stop.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he finally whispered, purposefully not answering Twig’s pleas.

“It’s still free time.”

“But the Ubers won’t like it. I don’t want them to hurt you, too.”

“I brought you something,” Twig said, ignoring Harper’s words in return and proving he’d learned more than just how to tell stories from the engineer.

“Twig…” Harper sighed, even this small conversation sapping his strength.

“Sit up,” Twig prodded. “Please, Harper.”

“Twig, I can’t. That would make me hurt a lot more than I do right now.”

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” Twig’s voice cracked, “but Peter said I had to get you to sit up since he’s too big to come over here and tell you himself. The Ubers would notice him. He said you have to sit up or you’ll die!”

Harper turned his face away, even though his blind eyes couldn’t see the boy pleading with him. “Twig,” he whispered, “I’m already dying. Can’t change that.”

The sobbing started in earnest now. “No!” Twig cried. “No! You can’t die! It’s not fair! Everyone else died, you don’t get to, too!”

“You don’t always get a choice about dying, Twig.”

“But you do!” Twig sobbed, his voice getting louder. He actually sounded angry now. “You could live if you wanted to, but you’re being stupid and mean and just don’t care! That’s not fair! I wanted to die, when it hurt so bad! I wanted to go to that warm place with the nice people in my dreams, but you wouldn’t let me! You made me stay even though it hurt really bad. You said you loved me and wanted me to stay, so I did. Even though I _still_ hurt and just don’t tell you! So you don’t get to die either, even though you hurt, because…because…I love you, too! And I need you! So please, please sit up!”

Harper listened to Twig’s fervent, desperate voice in shocked surprise and found tears that had nothing to do with the pain he was fighting filling his eyes. He’d wanted to die to stop all the suffering, but also because he’d thought there was nothing to live for. The first time he’d found himself in slavery, he’d fought tooth and nail to survive, knowing he had to, but this time he’d come to the conclusion everyone would be much better off without him, that no one needed him. Maybe he’d been wrong.

“I really don’t know if I can sit up,” he whispered to the little boy, anguish in his voice.

“Please try,” Twig begged. Harper heard him shifting around and could almost imagine him kneeling there, his tiny hands grasping the bars of the cage, his eyes pleading. “Peter says you’ll freeze tonight if you don’t move a little!”

“Okay,” Harper sighed wearily, “I’ll try.”

Peter and Twig were right, of course. His body had already gone stiff from the cold. He’d been counting on that before, but now he knew he had to keep moving a little, fight back against the temperature. And that meant doing as they asked and sitting up. So he forced himself to try. With anguished fire coursing through his ravaged back and his broken hand, Harper slowly started moving. Several times he managed to choke himself as the chain attached to his slave collar pulled tight, but he kept at it doggedly – for Twig – until he was on his knees, gasping.

It was the hardest thing he’d ever done. 

For a very long time, Harper just knelt there, fighting the urge to throw up. The pain was so intense it made him physically sick, and it took all his will-power to keep from passing out or just collapsing back to the ground. The cold had seeped deep into the bones of his broken hand, and it hurt almost as bad as his newly lacerated back. The torment he was in must have shown in his posture and on his face because Twig was sobbing again.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he kept repeating over and over.

“Not…your…fault,” Harper finally managed to ground out around tightly clenched teeth.

Gradually, Twig’s hiccupping sobs faded out of Harper’s hearing as his own pain receded enough to allow speech again.

“Go back to the others now, so you won’t get in trouble,” he whispered weakly as he carefully eased off his knees so that he was sitting on the ground instead of kneeling.

“Wait,” Twig cried softly. “Hold out your hands first, like when we played catch.”

Too exhausted to protest, Harper limply held out his good hand. Three light objects hit him gently in the chest and arms, landing in his lap. Obviously, Twig had been practicing his aim. He reached down and picked one up, feeling it with his fingers. 

“Your bread?” he breathed. He wanted to say he wasn’t hungry, but his aching, empty stomach betrayed him with a loud growl. Even such horrible injuries and the churning nausea couldn’t stop his starved body from wanting, craving food. But he tried to anyway. “No, Twig…”

“We all saved it for you, me and Peter and Dakin. Please eat it!”

Before Harper could think of any answer to that, the first curfew whistle pierced the air, and he heard Twig scamper quickly to his feet. 

“I’m gonna pray for you tonight, like Simon taught me, so please don’t die, Harper!” the boy whispered one last time, and then he was gone.

Harper barely managed to wait for the sound of tiny footsteps to fade before he stuffed the first small piece of bread into his mouth – whole.

*****

From his place at the gate of Barrack 6B, Marcus watched the little slave slip away from the cage and race past him into the prison without comment. He let the last few slaves into the building and closed the grate behind them as the third whistle blew, but his thoughts were preoccupied. He stared at the captive, beaten slave, observing how the starving kid devoured the forbidden food the little one had given him. That simple act should have earned him another painful punishment according to the rules, but Marcus never considered giving it. He’d been watching the young man all day as he lay there in a haze of pain and agony from the terribly severe punishment he’d endured that morning, and he was amazed the boy was sitting up now. Frankly, he was astonished the slave was even alive! He’d been sure the human would die, despite Adoniram’s efforts to prevent that. His father loved inflicting punishment and pain on the Kludges a little too much and, when he went overboard, often not even the wonders of modern medicine could save his victims.

It wasn’t right. He didn’t know for sure when he’d come to that conclusion, but he had. And he didn’t feel like he was betraying his race and all that being Nietzschean stood for by admitting it anymore. His father had made him a guard here to strengthen his will and teach him how to live up to his genetic potential: be a true Nietzschean. But Marcus had studied on his own, formed his own thoughts, and somewhere along the line had begun to wonder how a race that had to use horror, pain, and fear to keep control could really consider themselves superior. If the Nietzscheans really were the best, they were falling sadly short of their potential. And, he thought, studying the bleeding, ragged human before him, for all their weaknesses, Kludges were stronger than the Niets were willing to give them credit for. How else could a blind and crippled young man thrown into a death camp cling tenaciously to life despite everything done to him? 

Of course, this was far from over, he reminded himself, coming back to the present event. Winter was coming quickly and nights were cold for the Kludges. The cold and exposure alone might be enough to kill the weak human, and then with his injuries… And there was nothing he could do about it, which added to his growing discontent. It was terribly frustrating; he’d hoped the small slave with such stubborn determination would manage to survive long enough…

He stared for a moment longer before he strode with silent determination over to the slave’s cage, gazing at the pitiful figure through the bars. The kid was shivering from the cold and pain, his bare chest and back unprotected and exposed. His father’s whip had literally torn the slave’s back to shreds, and although the doctor’s drugs had induced rapid clotting and kept the young man from bleeding to death, the pain had to be excruciating. And yet he was sitting; sitting and rocking back and forth as much as his leash would allow, trying to keep warm, his chains clanking faintly in the eerie stillness.

“Kludge,” Marcus spoke softly, hoping not to startle the human, but he should have known better. The young man flinched and stopped rocking. Fear crossed his face as he recognized the voice, and he unconsciously cradled the hand Marcus had crushed to his chest, bowing his head in resignation.

Marcus sighed and looked around to make sure they were unobserved. Then he crouched down so he was at the same level as the frightened slave.

“Seamus Harper,” he tried again, his voice soft. The human raised his head in surprise. “I’m not going to hurt you. I know you probably don’t believe me given what’s been done to you in this place, what I’ve had to do to you, but I’m not.”

The human cocked his head, listening, his pain-twisted face still fearful and untrusting as his blind eyes darted wildly around. “What do you want?” he finally whispered, shivering violently.

“To tell you that it would be worth your while to continue to fight for survival tonight.” He pulled something from his jacket and tossed it through the bars to the young slave. “And to maybe give you a fighting chance.”

“Why?” the slave croaked, fingering the blanket with distrust. It was thicker, softer, warmer than anything the slaves were ever given. “So you can keep your favorite whipping boy?” 

“No. So that someday you can be something more than a slave,” Marcus answered simply.

The boy turned his head in the Nietzschean’s direction, an unreadable expression crossing his face. “I was something more than a slave and you guys took that away,” he said bitterly.

“Nothing is permanent until you are dead, so I suggest you fight, Seamus Harper,” Marcus stated, standing and brushing off his hands. The guard stared at the human for a few seconds longer, then turned and walked off.


	54. Chapter 53

**Chapter 53**

_Who am I? Where am I going?  
Here I sit, all alone not knowing why.  
Brace me up, I’m so discouraged.  
Help I think I’m gonna die._

_How it hurts to be a no one.  
How I wish that I was someone really loved.  
Brace me up, I’m such a failure.  
Heaven help me up above._

\- Doug Stewart, _Saturday’s Warrior_

*****

Sitting on the cold floor, Dylan flinched involuntarily as the cat-flap of his cell opened with a high-pitched grating sound. After so many days in the cramped, completely dark, little box, his body and mind were numb, and any little unexpected noise or disturbance sent his senses into overload.

He scrunched up his face in pain at the sound, the only thought his tired mind was able to form being that the Niets were early. He wasn’t quite starving enough for it to be meal time again. A spark of curiosity and confusion tried to flare to life, but it couldn’t quite make it past the numbness.

Then a beam of light pierced the cell through the narrow slot and Dylan’s senses woke up whether they wanted to or not. It was the first bit of light – the first _thing_ – he’d seen since they locked him in there, and it felt like an ice pick straight to the brain when it hit his sensitive eyes.

“Gah!” Dylan couldn’t stop from crying out, clamping his eyes closed against the assault and bringing his hands up to his face, chains clanking loudly.

“What do you want?” he croaked to the unseen person beyond the door when he finally dared to open his watering eyes and squint around at his limited world again. He was in too much discomfort to remember to curb his tongue and bow to his new station in life. 

“Three hundred years ago, the Nietzscheans were part of the Commonwealth. Why? What benefit could it possibly have held for them, for their survival?”

Dylan felt his jaw literally drop at the out-of-the-blue question. It was the absolute last thing he’d expected to hear.

“I…they…huh… What?”

The sound of an object scraping quietly across the floor came through the door, and Dylan imagined the guard was dragging something forward to sit on. He spoke again, and this time Dylan listened carefully, recognizing the voice of Marcus.

“I want to know why my ancestors found an institution as pedantic as the Commonwealth useful. Why would they allow themselves to become a part of, be subject to the whims of inferiors?”

“And you want to have this conversation now, through a cell door as I sit here your _slave_ , in chains?” Dylan couldn’t help asking, his voice rough from disuse but still incredulous. 

“Yes.”

Dylan snorted slightly, muttering, “I will never understand Nietzscheans and their sense of timing.” He turned his face away from the painful light, shivering rather forcefully. “You know, since it appears that all irony aside, we are going to have this conversation, it would be a lot easier if I weren’t half frozen and completely starved…”

“It probably would be, but I can’t do anything about that. As you mentioned, Captain Hunt, you _are_ still a slave. It would be wise to remember that.”

The captain sighed. That was pretty much the answer he’d expected, but it never hurt to try. Well, come to think of it, around here it often hurt to try, but that was beside the point…

Dylan stopped his wandering thoughts forcefully, figuring the long solitary confinement must have adversely affected his brain.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ve never talked politics in chains before, but I guess you get to try something new every day. What exactly did you want to know, again?”

“How is it, exactly, that you think the survival of the Nietzscheans in general, and the Drago-Kazov in particular, would be enhanced by becoming beholden to others?” asked Marcus.

Dylan sighed wearily. “Because it's not just about being beholden to others. Being a part of the Commonwealth means having friends – strong and loyal friends. When your survival is threatened, do you want to stand on your own against the universe, or do you want to win? Whether your people want to believe it or not, there is a Worldship of hungry Magog on the way, and when they get here, they aren’t going to care one bit about the superiority of your genes or pureness of your family line. They’ll mow you down, just like the rest of us, unless we join together to stop them. Allies make the difference between winning and losing.”

The questions Marcus was asking, while well-masked in typical Nietzschean sentiment, reminded Dylan of how very young this guard was, and that maybe, just maybe, he’d found a way to form opinions beyond those he’d been fed since birth. Whatever the reason or cause, he had come looking to talk, asking questions, of a lowly slave no less. That had to mean something, if not for Dylan’s own benefit, at least for the universe at large. The captain forced his stiff, cold muscles to respond and tried to sit up more and concentrate despite his hunger and misery.

“I am - or at least I was - the captain of a warship,” he continued, his voice still weak from days without use. “Battle, strategy, these are my strengths. Believe me, there’s nothing weak or sentimental about being a part of a Commonwealth, or going to the aid of others, when it means you will survive odds you never would on your own.”

“And yet here you sit, dying in chains,” said Marcus pointedly, unable to keep a slight trace of disgust and scorn from his words. “Where are these powerful and mighty friends of yours now?”

Dylan had wondered the same thing himself, on many occasions. “I don't know," he answered honestly, his voice bone-tired. "But I don't question their loyalty. Me still being here isn’t so much a mark of their disloyalty as it is of your peoples’ subversion of justice,” he added bitterly, then paused, realizing he was treading on very thin ice. Searching questions or not, he was still having this conversation from the wrong side of a prison door, with a man who held the power of life, or death, or excruciating pain over him.

There was silence for a long while, long enough that Dylan was starting to wonder exactly how much extra time in his little box he’d just earned, and if he’d ever see the sun again, but finally Marcus spoke.

“Are you saying you shouldn’t be here?”

“None of us should be here,” he answered firmly without a moment’s hesitation, “and I think you know that.”

“What I might think, and what I have the power to change are two very different things," the guard added, the hint of compassion in his voice revealing what might be true regret.

“And I know that as well,” Dylan added sadly. “Believe me, I'm in a position to understand being powerless. Got that down to an art.”

“So,” Marcus continued after a moment, “even if your great Commonwealth never rescues you and you die here, you would still champion its cause, spout its ideals of justice and honor? Would still remain loyal to your friends, even though they failed you?”

“You know, I would bet my life, pitiful though it may be right now, on the fact that my ‘disloyal, failures of friends’ as you call them have spent the last, oh however long we’ve been here, tearing up the universe trying to find us. Bet they kept looking long after it was logical to do so, even long after I would have told them to give up, had I actually been able to,” Dylan couldn’t help saying, a small smoldering of annoyance leaking out. “So, tell me, if you’d gone missing or been captured by enemies, exactly how long would your Pride spend looking for you?”

There was no answer. “That’s pretty much what I thought,” Dylan said quietly, just a trace of smugness in his voice.

“You failed to answer the questions, Kludge,” Marcus said after a moment, his voice short.

“Ah, yes, let’s see. If I die in here, well -" Dylan chuckled slightly. "It’s a death that would have come long ago without them. I’ve been living on borrowed time for three-hundred years.” 

He shifted, trying to ease the pressure on cold, aching bones, even though he knew it was pointless. The cell had been designed for discomfort, and it did its job extremely well. With his eyes finally starting to adjust to the weak light, Dylan got his first glimpse of his surroundings, and he had to admit he wasn’t impressed. He sighed and let his head fall back against the stone wall, chained hands sinking limply into his lap, and tried to ignore the gnawing in his belly as he continued talking. 

“To answer your question,” he said tiredly, “yes, I will still remain loyal to the Commonwealth and my friends, even if I stay here in this miserable pit for the rest of my life. First of all, as I mentioned before, if I die here, it’s not because they failed to care, it’s because Felix, the Drago-Kazov, and your people perpetrated a wrong they chose not to fix. And secondly, even if I die, the very fact that my friends do care and are still out there insures that the Commonwealth will go on – strong – and maintain our ideals. Because that’s what the Commonwealth is. It’s not about one man – me – or even one race. It’s about all the races and all the individuals who chose to join it. It’s built by all of them joining together and giving their all, but it won’t fail if one man goes away. No government is worth anything if it crumbles with the loss of one man.”

"You speak intelligently, for a man in chains, as you put it," said Marcus.

“And what about your chains?” Dylan asked suddenly, his voice quiet. 

There was an indignant sputter from the other side of the cell door. “I’m not a slave, Kludge!”

“No?” Dylan returned. “Then why are you having this conversation where no one will see or overhear? Tell me you could ask these questions in the light of day and not be labeled a traitor? Tell me you could leave this camp, pursue a life of your own choice, and not have your courage questioned, your genes declared impure, and your posterity shunned? You already admitted to me that you’re powerless to provide help or change things that bother you. Is that true freedom? Remember, _Master_ , chains come in all shapes and sizes, and not all are visible to the naked eye.”

Abruptly, Dylan heard the sound of the other man rising and realized he’d finally pushed too far.

“You should curb your tongue, slave! There has been enough punishment administered today.”

As suddenly as it had appeared the small light vanished, plunging Dylan back into complete darkness and sending his spirits plummeting again. 

“Master, wait,” he cried softly as he heard the guard start to leave. “Harper and Twig? Can you tell me how they are?” He wasn’t quite begging, but he was ashamed to admit he might if that was what it took.

There was silence for several moments before Marcus’s emotionless voice floated back to him. “Tomorrow evening you can answer that question for yourself.”

Dylan didn’t know if Marcus was too angry to answer his question straight, disinclined to care one way or the other, or purposefully avoiding it, but at least he knew his solitary confinement might finally be coming to an end. It was enough to stir his broken soul to life slightly.

“Someone will bring food in the morning,” Marcus added. “And now you will be silent, slave, and contemplate your station in life.”

The cat-flap fell back down and the guard’s footsteps echoed as he walked away, leaving Dylan alone in the cold and dark again, with only his painfully empty stomach and confused thoughts for company.

*****

“So, we go in with the _Maru_. Park far enough away not to lose the element of surprise, sneak into the camp under the cover of night if we can, blast in if we can’t. Either way, we’re getting Harper and Dylan out of there –” Beka broke off impatiently when she noticed Patch shaking his head quietly off to one side. “What?” she snapped slightly.

“You haven’t been listening to me, Becky-girl,” Patch said stepping forward into the small circle formed by the Andromeda officers that stood around Beka’s desk, the gentleness of his voice at odds with his rough appearance. “No matter how much you want to, you _can’t_ just fly in and get them. I’ve been trying to tell you, the only access to that planet is through the port town Cisum, and then only with clearance and a permit.”

“And so what? You want me to fly over and ask them for permission to land on their dirt ball. Maybe I should include a memo detailing our rescue plans so they can be ready?” Anger flashed through her eyes, but Patch didn’t rise to it or get offended. He knew it was just her way of dealing with the bombshell she’d been handed, and if she let the anger go she’d just simply fall to pieces.

“Beka,” the old captain said firmly, “if you try to land a ship on that planet anywhere but in Cisum, you will crash and you will probably die. I’m not saying that to stop you from going, or disagree with your plan, I’m just telling you the cold, hard truth. Ships and Rellim don’t mix. That leaves the port city, which is monitored all day, every day. You try to fight your way in, you’ll be outnumbered and outgunned and shot down before you get close enough to see who’s firing at you. And then what? You’re no good to your friends if you get yourself killed.”

“Patch,” Beka stressed, “for ten months my friends have been slaves on that planet. Ten months! Do you have any idea what Nietzscheans do to their slaves, especially ones they don’t like very much? I only know what little I managed to coax out of Harper or stumble across on accident, but I know whatever it is they do it was bad enough to leave him screaming in his sleep for years afterwards, and that was just the first time around! Now I am not leaving them there even five seconds longer so we can stand here and debate how to form a rescue plan that meets all the safety codes!”

“So you would rather leave them there indefinably, because you failed to listen to reason and foolishly got yourself killed or captured in their rescue attempt,” Tyr stepped forward, uncrossing his arms and piercing Beka with a stern glare. “History is filled with great and noble feats attempted, and failed, Beka.” 

He paused as if gathering his thoughts and his voice took on a small shift in quality that only those who associated with him every day would notice as a welling of emotion. “I too recoil at the image of Captain Hunt and the boy reduced to chattel in chains. It sickens me at the very fiber of my soul, and I long to show the worthless creatures who have kept them as such what a true Nietzschean’s will can do, but I will not throw my life away on a foolhardy, rash plan that not only risks my own survival but has no chance of succeeding!”

“They’re right, Beka,” Trance spoke up quietly for the first time. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks suspiciously damp. “Harper and Dylan need us to work together and be smart, not fight and argue.”

The blonde pilot’s shoulders sagged slightly. “But, what if every second counts?”

“If every second counts, Beka, then we’re too late already,” Rommie said, hating the logic of her own words. “But, Dylan and Harper are tough, tougher than most give them credit for. If they’ve survived this long, they will stay alive until we can get to them.”

Beka deflated and caved. “So, what do we do?” she asked quietly. 

“I’d like to help,” Patch spoke up again. “And I have a plan, if you’re willing to consider it.”

Beka gestured limply for him to continue. “You can’t enter the port city undetected, either in the Maru or one of the _Andromeda_ ’s slipfighters. But the _Miss Kitty_ goes there all the time when we have a scheduled drop or pick-up. If you’re willing to wait a week, I can get you on the planet, no questions asked. From there it’ll be difficult, but not quite impossible to leave the city and skedaddle across the planet to the prison camp.”

“A week!” Beka cried, not at all happy.

“I know,” Patch cut her off, “you don’t want to wait because you don’t want them to suffer any longer than they have to, but it probably is the only way you’ll get on that planet in one piece, Becky.”

Fighting back her instinctive reactions, Beka glanced at her friends and crewmates. No one seemed happy, but no one disagreed either.

“It’s a sound plan, Beka,” Rommie spoke up. “Not an ideal time-frame, but probably the best we’ll get.”

Beka sighed. “What about your crew?” she asked Patch. “They willing to risk this?”

Patch waved that question off, a broad smile on his face. “Dropped ‘em all off on Infinity. Told ‘em not to break too many laws and I’d pick ‘em all back up in a few weeks, give or take a month or so. The ones that are worth anything will be there when I go back.”

Beka ran a hand through her hair, squeezing her eyes shut for several seconds as she thought intently, but finally opened them and nodded reluctantly. “Okay, so we snag some junior officer to play captain on the Command Deck for a few weeks. The rest of us will go off in the _Miss Kitty_ with Patch to – ”

“I’m staying here.”

Everyone glanced in surprise at Trance.

“Trance, you can’t. You’re our medic, and I _do_ know enough about Nietzschean slavery techniques to know Harper and Dylan are going to need you.”

“Once you’ve got them off the planet, Andromeda and I can meet up with you in less than an hour if we plot the jumps just right,” Trance continued, firm resolve in her voice despite her worry. “And someone needs to stay with the ship. What if something goes wrong? Who will rescue you? Or what if someone decides to take advantage of the situation and attack the _Andromeda_?”

Beka studied the golden girl closely, wondering if she knew something they didn’t, or was just acting on instincts like the rest of them. Finally, she gave up trying.

“Okay,” Beka agreed. “At least Rommie will be there for emergency medical procedures. Just make sure you stock the _Miss Kitty_ ’s infirmary with anything that might be needed, and I mean _anything_.”

“Going, stocking!” Trance called, rushing from the room. 

“Everyone else, I think we have just as much work to do,” she said, glad to keep working so her mind didn’t have to think at the moment. “Let’s get busy people.”

*****

Harper couldn’t recall when during the night it started raining. He just knew that at some point in his mindless, agony filled rocking, he realized the blanket around his shoulders was soaked through and there were drops of water coursing down his face. And it was cold. Flesh-piercing, bone-chilling cold.

Gradually, despite Twig’s impassioned pleas for him to live and Marcus’s strange words of taunting encouragement, the cold got to him, along with the pain. He rocked less and less, drifted more and more. 

In the end, he wasn’t even aware of stopping, of sagging to the ground against his tether, of closing his eyes. No amount of willpower could get him through such insurmountable odds. All movement stopped and his mind flew far away. 

He never even noticed the small hands that reached out to lift the blanket, holding it up as a shield against the rain.


	55. Chapter 54

**Chapter 54**

_Ecclesiastes 4: 9-10_

_Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labour._

_For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow: but woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up._

_\- The Bible_

*****

Wide-eyed, Twig stared at the girl, trembling in a way that had nothing to do with the cold and the rain. No one, not even he, had been able to get in that cage to sit with his friend. How could she? And who was she? She was small, ragged, and so pale, and shouldn’t, _couldn’t_ be there! It made his hair stand up in a way he couldn’t explain or understand.

But she was helping Harper, so he stayed quiet and watched. Crouched next to the open grate of their barrack, he stared out into the night through the pouring sheets of rain, almost afraid. All the other slaves were asleep, but the whole night he had sat there in silent vigil, watching over his friend, and praying with every fiber of his heart that he would make it, that Harper would stay alive. 

And then the rain had started, and Twig’s heart broke. He didn’t need Peter or Dakin to tell him that was bad; he didn’t need to be told that was as good as a death sentence for Harper. Helpless tears coursed down his cheeks, matching the rain falling just beyond the iron bars, as he watched Harper slowly sink onto the muddy ground and stop moving.

Then she came from…somewhere. But…how? How did she get in, and where did she come from? And why did looking at her make him feel so…odd? Like he was seeing something he wasn’t supposed to?

Twig shuddered and pulled his knees tighter to his chest, hiding in the shadows. She might be helping, but she scared him, and more than ever, he wished Harper was there to hold him the best he could and tell him stories about Jack, not out there in the rain – dying – watched over by strange, pale, little girls.

*****

“Little slave… Little slave are you alive?”

The words slowly filtered into Harper’s weary brain like sand creeping in with the tide, gradually filling it and asking for his attention. He wasn’t dead, and he wasn’t asleep, but he had been very, very far away somehow; so far away it took him several minutes to notice the boot toeing him less than gently in the side.

“The slave doctor tells me you have a pulse, so I know you’re alive. Come on, wakie-wakie little slave…”

 _Not asleep_ , Harper thought thickly, but he didn’t say it or make any attempt to move. He was so cold he was almost warm, the agony of his wounds a distant echo right now. He knew he hadn’t slept during the night and it seemed he should be dead, given that he’d quickly lost the fight to keep moving, but for some strange reason it felt as though he’d spent the night talking to someone. 

“Slave!” the voice said more forcefully, right next to his head. Reluctantly, Harper dragged his eyes open, that small movement taking every bit of his concentration. For several moments he was preoccupied, wondering why it was so dark.

“I expected you to be dead,” the speaker continued. _Adoniram_ – Harper’s brain supplied the name once it finished solving the mystery of the darkness. “But, I suppose today is your lucky day.”

Hands came out of nowhere to grasp the chains on Harper’s wrists and around his neck. They hauled him to a sitting position, and suddenly he really, really didn’t feel lucky. His whole body woke up and screamed at him in a blaze of agonizing pain, but the only thing that made it past his lips was a limp moan.

“I received word this morning that Commander Gaius Felix himself is coming to inspect the camp next month, and he has specifically requested to see how you, his favorite little slave, are doing. I imagine he has something special planned for the reunion. So, until that day, you get to live.”

The last word was said with a sneer, making it clear he hardly considered Harper worthy of such a great gift.

“My lord,” Harper heard a timid voice say through the haze of agony. “If you want him to survive, he’ll need at the very least some medical attention and a few days rest. Please, let me take him to the hospital barrack.”

“No. You may give him minimal treatment; I do want him alive, but he stays in his barrack. I want the others to see him; see what happens when you disobey, and see my mercy towards him anyway.”

“Someone will need to stay with him then, my lord.”

Harper had started shivering uncontrollably, his body finally trying to fight back, but he was still only vaguely aware that his life and fate were being decided around him. The chain attached to his collar was tugging him back to the ground, choking him, but he didn’t have the strength or energy to move.

“I… I…can stay with him, Master. Please?”

Nothing, however, could have prevented Harper from recognizing Twig’s shaky voice, and his heart caught at the thought of the courage it took that little boy to come forward and make that request. He fought to stop his chattering teeth and listen despite the great pain he was in.

“I’ll give the Kludge three days, no more. Now, get him out of my sight.” Adoniram nudged him disgustedly with his boot one last time then turned away. “And the rest of you worthless mules, get to the mines!” he bellowed across the camp. 

Harper listened to the stomp of feet recede as he sat shaking and shivering in a puddle on the muddy ground and knew the Nietzschean captain and his squad of goons were gone. Then, surprisingly gentle hands were suddenly touching his neck and shoulders, steadying him.

“Sh, slave.” He recognized Marcus’s voice in his ear this time. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m just going to release you from your leash.” He was too week and in pain to resist, even if Marcus had been intent on hurting him. He closed his eyes and simply endured, and suddenly the pressure pulling on his collar was gone and the chain fell away.

“Come on, Mr. Harper,” he heard Doctor Kesler say sadly, joining Marcus at his side. “Let’s go put you back together yet again.”

*****

Harper cracked open an eyelid, blinking blearily. The deep pain in his back and his hand had started to creep into his sleep a while ago and it finally became too great to ignore. Once his eyes were open, he remained completely still, feeling out his surroundings and situation. He was lying on his stomach on a blanket spread across his meager pile of straw, his arms resting gently on either side of his head, the chain connecting them arranged carefully to be out of the way as much as possible. His head was propped up slightly on something soft, and he might still be hurting a whole lot, but he also had the warm rather disconnected feeling that told him he was buried in blankets and souped up on drugs.

“Hello, young man.”

Harper didn’t bother turning his head but he did focus his hearing on the gentle voice of Dr. Kesler coming from right next to him.

“What time?” he managed to whisper.

“It’s dark. The others will be coming from the mines soon,” the slave doctor told him. “And when they do, I have to leave.”

“Why?”

“I have other patients who need my help, and I’m subject to curfew as well. I would stay if I could, but Adoniram has decreed that, despite the fact that you are by far my most injured patient, I have to go,” the man said bitterly. “I’ll check on you when I can, though.”

Harper accepted the explanation, knowing the doctor had no more control of his life and actions than he did himself. “Twig?” the tired engineer asked next. In response Harper felt a small hand gently grip his good one, squeezing tightly.

“Adoniram reluctantly allowed him to stay. He’s been assisting me, and I’ve taught him how to administer the few drugs I’ve been given permission to use. He’ll be allowed to remain at your side for the duration of your recovery.”

Harper spared a thought at the absurdity that he was in a place where medical care was entrusted to an eleven year old, but then he remembered he was lucky to be getting any at all.

“Pain meds?”

Doc Barty sighed. “Not so much.”

It was the answer Harper had expected. “S’okay,” he whispered, closing his eyes. There really was no point in keeping them open. “Better to not have them at all than to have them taken away.”

“I slipped in a few. Won’t do much, but they might dent the pain enough for you to sleep these first few days. And I’m allowed to give you fluids and sugars, which your starved body is in great need of, as well as a few large doses of antibiotics. Hopefully we can keep your wounds from becoming infected, at least for now. Letting you regain a little strength before your body has to fight additional battles is crucial.”

Harper listened to the doctor’s words dully. Infection now or later, it didn’t really make a lot of difference in the long run, no matter how the doc tried to give him a bright side. Especially knowing they were only allowing the man to fix him up in anticipation of a visit from Felix. That did little to inspire thoughts of a long, healthy life. What mattered to him at the moment was the fact that he was dry and somehow not freezing anymore. “Warm now…” he whispered.

“Yes, I finally managed to dry you off and bring your body temperature up, which wasn’t easy. You can thank Marcus for the mountain of blankets you’re currently residing under. Enjoy them while they last as I’m sure they won’t be here forever.” Harper noted the doctor’s voice was sad again. He sounded sad a lot. “I cleaned your back, but there really isn’t anything else I can do for it. You’re going to have horrible scars.”

“Already did, so it doesn’t matter,” Harper said without emotion. 

“I have it covered loosely in bandages to protect it from infection and keep these dirty blankets from touching it, but who knows how long we’ll be allowed to keep it that way,” Doc Barty continued, having a much harder time keeping the emotion out of his voice. “Adoniram tends to enjoy showing off his handiwork.”

“Yeah,” Harper murmured tiredly. “I noticed.”

“You have an IV running from your right hand to a bag hanging from the barrack wall. Don’t move around or you’ll pull it out or knock the bag down. I hope you don’t mind, but I also took the opportunity to examine your crushed hand while you were out. I’m sorry, Mr. Harper, but it’s beyond anything I can do now. It’s badly damaged, but healed incorrectly too much for me to try and splint it. I wrapped it tightly; maybe that will give you a little relief from the pain.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Harper said quietly. He still wasn’t entirely sure he wanted all this help, knowing it would be much easier to just give up and let death come, but then he remembered Twig’s fervent pleas and knew he couldn’t do that. No matter what was to come in the future, he owed it to the little boy to hang on and fight for as long as he was able. “How long do I get?” he asked the doctor. “On sick leave, I mean.”

“Three days,” Bartholomew sighed. “Not nearly enough, but better than nothing I guess.” The shrill whistle that signaled the end of the slaves’ workday sounded at that moment, cutting off whatever else he might have added. “I’ve got to go now, but Twig has promised to look after you, and the others will be in for the night as well.”

“’K.”

“Take care, Mr. Harper,” the old man said fervently, and then he was gone.

*****

When the stone-faced, unsympathetic guard led him up the dungeon stairs and into the main portion of the building, Dylan nearly screamed as the light from all the lamps hit his tender eyes. He threw his bound arms up as tears coursed down his cheeks, but the guard just bellowed at him to keep moving. He stumbled blindly after the Nietzschean and when they finally exited out into the dark of night it was a blessed relief. Wiping his eyes on the backs of his filthy, ragged sleeves, Dylan hurried to keep up. The long exile in his tiny cell had left him cramped and stiff and starved, unable to move without hobbling and wavering like a broken, old man.

Strange how it had also left him feeling like he was just that; broken and old, very old.

The compound was empty of slaves; the deep silence telling Dylan that curfew had come and gone hours ago. Crossing it sent chills up his spine, like walking through a graveyard. It was almost a relief when his sullen guard stopped in front of Barrack 6B and unlocked the grate, pulling it aside enough for him to enter. He passed the guard without comment and limped gratefully into what now passed as his home.

“Dylan!”

Two spindly little arms were squeezing the air out of his lungs before he really had time to blink. Twig’s face was buried in his shirt and he was whispering things the captain couldn’t even make out. All he could hear was the almost hysterical quality of the child’s voice.

“Hey, kiddo,” he soothed, gently rubbing his back. “It’s all right. They didn’t hurt me and I’m back now.”

“Wish that were true for both of ya.”

Dylan turned around at Peter’s quiet voice. He found the man propped wearily against the wall of the barrack in the corner by his and Harper’s pile of straw. Peter looked as if he’d been sitting watch for something but dozed off lightly before Dylan entered and woke him up.

“Welcome back, mate,” Peter said with a shallow smile. “I’m afraid we ain’t done so well while you were gone.” He looked sadly toward their pile of straw and Dylan followed his gaze.

There, pale as milk and unmoving, buried under a mound of dirty, tattered blankets so that only his head, hands, and bare, lacerated shoulders showed, was Harper.

His breath caught in his throat and he gently disentangled himself from Twig enough that he could move to the engineer’s side.

“What happened?” he asked numbly.

“Thought we’d lost ‘im,” Peter answered wearily. “Just sorta gave up one day, refused ta go on. Adoniram ‘ad ‘im whipped. Worst whipping I’ve ever seen, an’ then staked ‘im out all day and night in the rain and cold. The only reason ‘e’s alive now is that the monster changed ‘is mind and ordered ‘im fixed up again.”

“I told him he couldn’t die,” Twig whispered, sitting next to the young man and taking his hand. He started to say something, then paused as if changing his mind. “I got mad at him and said he had to fight,” he finished instead. 

A gamma of emotions ranging from overwhelming guilt for not being there to blinding rage assaulted Dylan all at once, leaving him unsure of whether he should break down and cry, or scream and throw things at the walls. Finally, he decided neither would help him or Harper and remained silent, staring at his young friend with dangerously moist eyes. 

Hesitantly, he reached out and pulled the blankets down, exposing a very large, lose collection of bandages covering the boy’s entire back and shoulders, already stained brown with dried blood. Not wanting to see again, Twig looked away, tears rolling down his cheeks, but Dylan knew he had to know. Ever so gently, he eased the bandages up and peeled them back, then fought the urge to gag. Compassion and sorrow stronger than almost anything he’d ever felt for his friend surged through him.

“Oh, Harper…” he breathed, replacing the bandages and hanging his head. And to think while Harper was enduring that he’d been complaining about a little cramped solitary confinement. With trembling hands he tucked the blankets back around his friend.

“We’ve been taking turns sitting with ‘im,” Peter spoke up solemnly, motioning to where Dakin was sleeping a few feet away from Harper. “’E’s getting better, sleeping a lot, and Twig’s been making sure ‘e gets the few meds the doc is allowed to give ‘im. In fact, the kid ain’t left ‘is side all day.”

Dylan looked gratefully at the little boy who had come to mean so much to him, a child who had never really had the chance to be a little boy. He knew Twig adored and loved Harper like a father and that Harper had come to see the little boy as his own, and Dylan didn’t want to get in the way of that. Still, he was very grateful Twig let him share in that, looked to him for love and friendship as well. And he was immensely thankful the boy had been there for Harper when he couldn’t be. He opened his mouth to thank him but with his eyes finally adjusted to the light of the barrack, he noticed something about his small friend that made his already broken heart sink a little more.

“What happened?” he asked instead, reaching out and gently tilting Twig’s face to the side so the minimal light exposed the two massive bruises on the child’s face, one across his cheek and the other surrounding his left eye. He also noticed for the first time that there was a cut high on the boy’s forehead.

Twig ducked his head, but Peter jumped in to answer for him, anger flashing across his own face as he did. “Got that at dinner time,” he growled darkly. “Raced out when the whistle blew with both ‘is dishes and Seamus’s, ‘oping to be first in line and get food for both of ‘em. Guards didn’t really see it that way. Took Marcus stepping in and virtually decreeing that Seamus was allowed to eat before the guards would let ‘im go.”

It was minor compared to Harper’s situation, but it was still one more failure to add to his list, one more slap in the face telling him he couldn’t keep his people safe anymore. Somehow, it hurt just as bad. Sighing deeply, he just pulled the little boy into a small hug. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Twig leaned into him, soaking up the gesture of love. They sat that way for a long time, drawing comfort from the presence of the other. 

The feel of his friend’s arms around him was pure comfort to Twig, despite the awkwardness of the always present chains. He leaned into the embrace, letting all the grief and worry and stress of the last week drain out of him for a moment. Dylan was back and he could be the grown-up now so that Twig didn’t have to. He could stop worrying so much. He considered telling his friend about the strange little girl he’d seen last night helping Harper, but now it was over, it felt silly to worry about something like that. Besides, maybe he’d just dreamed it all up. It didn’t matter anyway. Now that Dylan was back, everything would be all right, Harper would be okay. For right now he was just going to let the captain hold him.

“Why don’t you get some sleep?” Dylan said over Twig’s head to Peter after a while. “A week or so in a five by five cell didn’t give me much to do other than sleep. I’m fine to watch them for the rest of the night.”

Peter nodded, wishing he could help more but knowing his exhausted, over-worked body needed the rest. He moved next to Dakin and was almost instantly asleep. Dylan wanted to suggest Twig get some rest as well, knowing the child was exhausted, but the boy was still clinging rather desperately to him and he doubted the advice would be heard, let alone obeyed just yet. He thought of the beating the child had endured just hours ago and held him tighter, his guilt spiking again. Then a groan from Harper brought Dylan’s attention back to his stricken friend, and he shoved his feelings of inadequacy aside to deal with later.

“Twig?” the young man asked thickly, sounding lost, vulnerable, and very, very small as his blind eyes blinked open slightly. “Anyone there?”

“Twig’s right here, Mr. Harper. And so am I,” Dylan answered for them both, his throat catching.

There was stunned silence for a moment and then in an almost desperate voice, “Dylan?” 

The captain gulped deeply. “Yeah, Harper. Right here, in the flesh,” he assured him, reaching out with chained hands to gently touch the young man’s arm. He heard what almost sounded like a sob.

“I thought you weren’t coming back. Thought they’d killed you.”

“Nah,” the captain answered, trying to keep the tears that were leaking out of his eyes from being heard in his voice. “Takes more than a few Ubers to get the best of Dylan Hunt,” he joked, sensing the boy needed it.

There was silence for a while then Harper spoke again. “Simon died.” The grief was palpable in his voice as he said it, countering Dylan’s assurances and asking how he could be sure the captain wouldn’t die on him as well.

The news struck Dylan hard and he dropped his eyes. He’d liked and respected the Wayist and would miss him deeply. But more than that, he was again overcome with guilt that he hadn’t been there, that Harper and Twig had been forced to go through that alone.

“I’m sorry,” he said with true grief. “But I didn’t, Harper. I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere again.” 

A little whimper escaped Harper’s lips and he closed his eyes, tears still squeezing out from beneath them. “I…I… It hurts, Dylan,” he whispered brokenly after a moment. “I don’t think I can do this again…”

“Well, that’s why you have me and Twig here, and Peter and Dakin. You might think you can’t, but I _know_ you can. I’ve seen you do it before, and I’m gonna sit right here and help you do it again.”

“And I can help you, too, Harper!” Twig spoke up, his voice pleading again. “The Doctor showed me how.”

“See. With your own personal cheering section and Doctor Twig, you’ll be better in no time.”

Harper gave a tiny, world-weary smile that didn’t really reach any of the rest of his face. At a loss for what else to say, Dylan was struck with sudden inspiration. He reached to his neck and pulled something out from under his shirt, slipping it off over his head.

“Here, Harper,” he said softly, opening the boy’s good hand and slipping the object gently inside it. “I want you to hold this. I was once told by a very reliable source that this is a powerful good luck charm, not to mention a very important reminder of love and hope.”

Harper’s breath hitched and he carefully squeezed his hand tightly shut around his rabbit’s foot, his face crumbling as emotions raced across it.

“You can do this, Harper,” Dylan spoke fervently, fully aware of the magnitude of what he was asking. “You have to.”

“’K,” the engineer whispered softly. “I’ll try. For you and Twig.”

Dylan could tell he was too weak and tired for much more conversation, sleep already pulling at him, but he fought it for a moment more. “Not leaving? Be around when I wake up?” the young man begged, vulnerability heavy in his voice. It tore Dylan’s heart.

“I’m not going anywhere, Mr. Harper,” he assured his engineer, knowing the boy wasn’t talking about leaving for the normal day-to-day grind of the mines. “I won’t let them take me away again.”

Harper nodded, finally letting his face relax and quickly drifted off, still clutching the rabbit’s foot in his sleep like a drowning man clinging to a life-preserver. Eventually, Twig’s little head found its way to the captain’s lap and the boy followed Harper off to sleep, but Dylan stayed awake, sitting silent and worried vigil over his friends.

Author's Note:  
I'm so sorry for the long wait in posting the next chapter. I've been trying to catch up on things around my house and garden and so writing and updated had to take a backseat for a bit. I promise to not make you wait as long for the next chapter.

And I have to say a huge thank you to everyone who is reading this story! You have made me very happy. Would love to hear from you if you like it.


	56. Chapter 55

**Chapter 55**

_Prison gates won’t open up for me  
On these hands and knees I’m crawlin’  
Oh, I reach for you  
Well I’m terrified of these four walls  
These iron bars can’t hold my soul in  
All I need is you  
Come please I’m callin’  
And oh I scream for you  
Hurry I’m fallin’, I’m fallin’_

_Show me what it’s like to be the last one standing  
And teach me wrong from right  
And I’ll show you what I can be  
Say it for me  
Say it for me  
And I’ll leave this life behind me  
Say it if it’s worth saving me  
Hurry I’m fallin’_

\- Nickleback

*****

After days of inactivity, being back in the mines was pure sensory overload, not to mention completely exhausting. Yet, as Dylan lay on the straw next to Harper that night, he found he couldn’t sleep. He was too tired, too sore, and unwilling to leave Harper with no one to watch over him. Twig had gone almost three days without real sleep helping his friend, and was completely worn out. Dylan insisted he go to bed, afraid the little guy would make himself sick, too. So that left Dylan to watch the injured engineer.

It might be a rather grim task, but it wasn’t a particularly hard one. Other than one very painful trip to the latrines, Harper hadn’t moved or changed positions since Dylan had been released. He was still on his stomach, still buried in filthy blankets and still being carefully administered an IV by “Doctor Twig.” It was helping; he was gradually getting better, but not fast enough, and he was still in incredible pain with only one more day of rest ahead of him. Even more concerning was the slight cough he’d developed from his exposure to the cold and rain.

Sad and very worried, Dylan glanced over at his friend to find the boy’s eyes open.

“You okay, Harper?” Dylan asked gently.

“Stupid question, Boss,” Harper replied, his voice soft and weak but without accusation. Still, Dylan winced.

“Twig sleeping?” the engineer continued.

“Right next to you.”

“Good. Kid was tired.”

Dylan shifted around a bit to see his friend better. “That little boy loves you a lot, you know.”

Harper hesitated for a moment before answering. “I know,” he said solemnly. “Scares the crap outta me. I mean, I’ve never exactly been role-model material, but look at me now,” he sighed weakly. “A slave – blind, crippled, whipped and in chains… What do I have to offer that kid?” The last of the sentence came out more like a groan as the engineer fought an intense spasm of pain.

Dylan watched his friend morosely, hating the fact that there was nothing he could do to help. “Harper, Twig doesn’t care about any of that. In a place filled with uncertainty, fear, and daily horrors, you gave him love, affection, time… You’d be his hero even if you had three heads.”

“Ugh,” Harper moaned quietly. “Please, please don’t give the Ubers any ideas.”

Dylan couldn’t help smiling at that. “I promise not to breathe a word,” he said fervently.

They sat in silence for a while, each simply glad for the presence of the other until Harper spoke up again.

“Boss?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, Harper?”

“Why do you think they haven’t come?” His voice was small and lost sounding. “Why haven’t they found us?”

Dylan dropped his head, shoulders slumping. “I don’t know, Harper. I really don’t know.”

“I thought they would rescue us. I know I’ve been cynical and pessimistic this whole time, but a part of me really did hope they would come. Beka would come…”

“I’m sure she’s tried,” Dylan offered, knowing it wasn’t much comfort. “She’s probably torn the universe apart looking.”

“I know,” Harper sighed. He waited for a moment before adding softly, “Do you… Do you think we’ll ever leave here?” 

As he spoke, the boy’s voice caught, whether from emotion or pain Dylan didn’t know. The captain looked at his friend lying there, remembered the tortured back that was hidden just beneath the bandages, and found he just couldn’t muster up any forced hope.

“At this point, I have no idea. Maybe not.”

Harper nodded, closing his blank eyes again. “You know,” he whispered weakly, sounding tired, “I was mad at you for a long time and didn’t want to forgive you.”

“Why? When?” Dylan asked, confused by the abrupt change of topic.

“Earth. The uprising. Brendan…” the engineer replied.

“Oh,” Dylan said softly, a sick feeling settling into the pit of his stomach.

“For a while, I really hated you. With a passion. You stood there on your clean, fancy ship – well-fed, freedom intact, the talk of the universe – and told me even though my cousin was dead and my people, me included, were still slaves it was okay because we tried. The pathetic little Kludges had reached up and poked the Ubers in the eye, and even though they responded with torture, starvation, and slaughter it was all good. They did their best. I wanted to scream or punch you, but you were so lost in your own world of causes and nobility you wouldn’t have understood anyway.”

Shame, hot and strong, burned through Dylan as he listened to Harper’s quiet words. He didn’t speak, couldn’t think of anything _t_ o say.

“After a while, though, I just ran out of energy to hate you. There were too many other people on my ‘hate-their-guts-list’ – I think you’ve met a few now – to waste brain power keeping you there. Besides, the kiddies in my gut were starting to wake up and Trance still didn’t have a cure. I was dying, even if I was the only one who would admit it. I decided I didn’t want to die hating you, considering there were too few people in the universe who could stand me as it was.”

With a groan, Harper shifted his head to really face the captain, wanting his friend to understand the importance of what he was saying.

“I don’t hate you anymore, Dylan. I’m not even mad at you. Sad and disappointed at what could have been but wasn’t, heck yeah. I always will be, but it’s too late to change that. I guess what I’m trying to say is I understand better now. Back then you had no idea what life on a Nietzschean slave world was like, why warm-fuzzies and we-tried-hard’s just don’t cut it. Now, you do. I wish with all my heart you still didn’t, could still go around with your head in the clouds and be “mister optimism,” but…I’m glad you’re here. Thank you for giving that all up for me – so I wouldn’t be alone.”

Dylan found his eyes filling up with tears at the quiet words, and he swallowed harshly. Sadness, guilt, and gratitude filled him at the same time.

“I, uh,” he stammered, “don’t know what to say.”

“Good,” Harper replied. “Because I’m too tired to talk more now. Think I’ll take this moment to enjoy our comfy accommodations and pass out.”

Harper was asleep almost instantly, but Dylan didn’t rest. He couldn’t. Long after Harper’s eyes had drifted shut, he sat there staring at the boy, thoughts and emotions whirling around his head.

*****

“What!” Beka screeched, her face taking on an expression that would have scared the living daylights out of most mere mortals. “How can we be denied access? You assured me we could get in this way!”

Patch held up his hands. “We’re not denied, Becky, just delayed,” he said hoping to calm the irate captain. “The port control just said our shipment has been pushed back a week.”

“A week! I can’t wait another week! _They_ can’t wait another week!”

“Beka,” Patch said sadly, laying a huge hand gently on her shoulder, “we don’t have a choice. It’s our only way in without open warfare, which we don’t have the people, resources, or firepower for.”

“I know!” Beka snapped, shrugging him off. “I know, I just… I left them… I…” She shook her head angrily and stormed off, unwilling to say anything else.

Barely in control of her emotions, she turned into the communal crew quarters the _Andromeda_ crew had been sharing and sank down on her bunk. Tears that she’d been holding at bay all week streamed down her face. She understood the reasoning of the others, the soundness of the plan, and the fact that the only way to rescue Harper and Dylan was by stealth and cunning, but all she could think of was the sight of Harper hanging on that cross. She knew he was alive, or had been when that letter from the slave camp had been sent, but in what condition? That image hadn’t been faked; Harper had suffered that cruel, cruel punishment. What else had been done to him? How hurt, or sick, or even close to death was he? 

She shuddered and the memory of horrible, ugly scars flashed across her mind. Harper tried to always keep them hidden, but she’d seen them. She’d been angry, shocked, and stunned the first time. He was an annoying, little brat half the time, but he was just a kid. No one had the right to do that to him! 

Sadly, time dimmed everything, even her horror. She got used to him, scars and all, and after a while, forgot about them…

Until something jumped up and hit her in the face to remind her. Like right now.

 _Almost eleven months_ …

Practically a full year they’d been gone. And Harper had been a slave that entire time, helpless and in the clutches of his worst enemies, the ones who had given him his first spectacular collection of scars.

And the worst part? 

It was all her fault.

A huge sob escaped her throat and she drew her knees up to her chest. Desperate for comfort of any kind, she reached under her pillow and withdrew the object she’d kept carefully hidden there since she smuggled it off of the _Maru_ a little over a week ago, right before this trip began. It was a stuffed cat, worn and mended, obviously having seen better days.

“Oh, Sylvester!” she cried, gripping the mangy, ragged toy tightly. “Why didn’t we look there? Why did we skip that planet? Eleven months of suffering and I could have stopped it! How can I ever look him in the eyes after this?”

Tears were coming faster now, released from the very depths of her anguish. She was sobbing like she hadn’t since she was a child, her breath hitching and catching, her body shaking.

“Stupid stuffed mess,” she whispered to the toy animal that she was hugging in a death grip. “But he said you were worth more than gold to him. And now, what if I never get to give you back to him? And what about Dylan? I condemned the hero of the universe to a year of slavery, too. How could I let them down so badly?”

The sobs were so strong now that she couldn’t speak, so she just clutched the toy and sagged down on the bunk, emptying her broken heart as she lay there alone in the dark, quiet room.

*****

“I can’t,” Harper whispered, pale as death as he sagged forward in the cart harness. A harsh cough crept from his throat to emphasize his words. “I can’t go anymore.”

It had been three days since Harper returned to the mines, but it felt like a lifetime. Dylan had been sharing cart duty with him that entire time, supposedly to help him, but all it had really done was force him to witness each excruciating hour of pain the young man suffered through, given him ample hours to stare at the horrible wounds on his friend’s bare back, and allowed him plenty of time to listen as the almost unnoticeable cough had deepened and lodged firmly in the boy’s chest.

“I really can’t,” Harper groaned again, and Dylan could see it was true. The Nietzscheans might take great pleasure in pushing their slaves to the very limits of their endurance, but they would have to recognize that Harper had reached his.

“Get moving, mules!” came the order Dylan had been expecting since their cart stopped.

“Master,” Dylan said quietly, ducking his head. Shame was long forgotten; the only thing that mattered now was helping Harper. “He can’t go anymore. He’s too sick. Please, let me take him to the doctor, or let him rest for a moment.”

“Why would I do that? Why should I care how he feels?” the guard demanded, stepping right in front of them so Dylan could see his hand resting lighting on the ever present whip. “He’s just a slave. You both are. Slaves work.”

“I know that, Master,” Dylan whispered, making sure to keep his eyes down. “But Master Felix wants him alive when he comes in a few weeks. Do you want to explain to him that his favorite slave died on your watch?”

It was a huge risk, speaking so boldly, but he was desperate. The guard raised his fist to backhand him but suddenly changed his mind. Harshly, he released them from the cart.

“Take him to the slave doctor and tell the Kludge to give him something!” he growled. “But you’d better be back here within the hour, and don’t you dare breathe a word of this to anyone.”

“Yes, Master,” Dylan said obediently, gripping the young man tightly to stop him from falling over as the harness fell away. “Come on, Harper,” he urged gently. “We’re at the very top of the mine. It won’t take long to get to Doc Barty’s. You can make it.”

Slowly, one step at a time, they made their way out of the mine and across the common area toward the hospital barrack. It was strange to see the camp in the daylight and so deserted. It made Dylan feel vulnerable and exposed, and he was grateful when they entered the medical building even if the hospital was dingy and ill-lit.

To say that Doctor Kesler was surprised to see them would have been an understatement, but he wasted no time in giving the engineer everything he could, not sure he would ever get the chance to help him again. 

“Feeling better?” he finally asked as Harper sipped a drink of cool, relatively clean water before heading back to work.

“Feel like a pincushion,” Harper teased weakly, “but yeah, a little better. Not so weak or lightheaded. Makes it easier to deal with the pain.”

“You two had better head back then,” Bartholomew said gently. “I don’t want all this to have been in vain if you get in trouble for being gone too long.”

“In case I don’t get the chance to say this later, you know with impending visits and all, just wanted to say thanks for everything, Doc.”

“Yes, thank you, Doctor,” Dylan added sincerely as he helped Harper to his feet again.

“I was glad to help, especially a friend,” the older man replied, his voice thick. “Now go before you regret it.”

They made a little better time on the trip back but were still only about halfway across the commons when they were stopped by a familiar cry.

“Harper! Dylan! What are you doing out here?” Twig looked fearfully around before running to their sides, empty bucket swinging in his hands. “You’re gonna get in trouble!” he whispered urgently, real concern for his friends filling his eyes.

“On our way back right now, Twig,” Dylan assured the child. “Just bringing Harper from a trip to see the Doc. What are you doing out here?”

Wordlessly, Twig held his bucket higher. 

“Ah,” Dylan nodded. “Getting water. Well, don’t let us –”

The ground beneath their feet suddenly buckled and rocked, throwing Twig into Dylan and almost ripping Harper from his grip as their chains clanked and rattled. The sound of the explosion when it reached their ears a few seconds later was deafening. Instinctively, both of his young friends clung to him.

“What was that?” Harper cried, panic filling his face.

“I don’t know,” Dylan replied, his mind whirling. Before either of them had time to think or pull away, the captain herded them quickly behind the nearest building. Any sort of quick movement sparked agony in Harper’s mangled back, but Dylan steeled himself and ignored the small whimpers as he forced the boys to move. He wasn’t sure why but his instinct just told him now was not the time to be caught standing alone in the open.

“What are you doing?” Harper whispered through gritted teeth as his friend pushed him down to a crouch. “What just happened?”

“Not sure,” Dylan answered distractedly, gazing around with quick, alert eyes. The ground was still trembling slightly beneath their feet. “I think something exploded in the mine.” Twig squeaked and clutched him harder, his face pale. Dylan patted him gently on the back, but didn’t take the time to speak to him as he continued to look around them. 

Parts of the camp looked like an earthquake had struck. A few of the older, shabbier barracks had crumbled and even the newer ones were missing gates or logs. Nietzscheans raced from the main building at an alarming rate. They poured from the opening of the mine and came in from guarding the perimeter and fences. Straining his ears, Dylan tried to listen to what was being said or shouted as they ran past.

“Dynamite cart in section E just went up!”

“…half the mine is caved in…”

“…threatening to go any minute!”

“Pull all the slaves, even the kitchen girls! We need all hands!”

Suddenly, Dylan’s roaming eyes saw something that pushed everything else, even the frantic voices of their Nietzschean guards, to the back of his mind. About twenty feet down from them, right where the fence turned to connect with the mountain itself, the blast had torn it completely from its post. It sagged, loose, leaving a gaping hole plenty wide enough for one person to crawl through. His heart thumped madly, so loud in his head that it took him several minutes to realize Harper was calling his name and tugging insistently on his sleeve. 

They spoke at the same time.

“Harper, there’s a hole in the fence! We can get out!”

“Dylan,” Harper said, sounding dazed and shocked. “The explosion was in section E. That’s where our barrack was assigned today. That’s where we were working…”

The captain’s breath caught and thoughts of escaped were swallowed up by that news. “Peter, Dakin…our friends…”

“Wait,” the engineer said quickly. “There’s a hole? In the fence? We can escape?”

“Yes,” Dylan replied, suddenly not so sure. “But I can’t leave now. Think of all the injured people I could help. You two should go without me.”

“Hello, brainless!” Harper snapped, blinking his eyes and holding up his broken hands. “Do you honestly think we’d last a day out there on our own? We need you! And we need to go now!”

“But those are our friends, Harper! I can’t just leave them here!”

“Dylan, I know this is going to sound heartless and totally cruel to you, but you need to hear it. Chances are, our friends just died in that explosion. If they didn’t, they’re going to wish they had considering the medical aid offered in this place. And, if by some miracle they did survive unharmed, when all is said and done they will _still_ be slaves.” Harper’s voice was urgent now, almost angry, the thought of escape giving him energy he hadn’t had moments before. “Which means they’ll still be stuck here, in this death trap, and will _stil_ l die way before their time. They only way to really save them, any of them, is to get them out of here. And the only one who has any chance of that is you, Captain Hunt of the _Andromeda Ascendant_. You’ll never do that from inside this prison. We have to go now, all of us!”

“But Harper…” Dylan protested weakly, the humanitarian in him still screaming at him to go help. 

“Boss, they’ll understand. And this is the only time we’ll have the chance to leave without other’s taking the rap for us. With any luck they’ll think we’ve been vaporized in the explosion and won’t even bother looking for us, let alone dishing out punishment to anyone else. Heck, the others would want us to go, if only to get Twig out of here!”

Dylan glanced at the little boy who had remained silent through the whole conversation, his eyes wide and scared, not comprehending what was happening. 

Twig. 

Twig deserved a life outside this camp, the chance to be a child and to grow up healthy and strong. Dylan made up his mind.

“All right,” he agreed. “But we aren’t going unprepared. Stay here. Stay quiet and don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

Silently, Dylan crept through the camp back toward their barrack, keeping to the shadows to remain invisible. Not that anyone would have noticed if they’d seen him; everyone was too intent on getting to the mine as quickly as possible with as much equipment and supplies as they could carry. Reaching their open, damaged barrack, Dylan ducked inside. Quickly he gathered up four or five blankets, offering silent apologies to his absent friends and hoping Marcus would cover for them if it was discovered. Then he grabbed their three sets of dishes, Simon’s glasses, Harper’s rabbit’s foot, and the knife he’d kept hidden since that day so long ago. He tied it all into a bundle and exited. 

The evening meal lay abandoned in the middle of the commons, left by the slave girls pulled suddenly to assist in the crisis. Glancing all around but seeing no one, Dylan risked the open space to gather up as much of the fallen bread as he could, knowing they would desperately need it. He would have liked to go for medical supplies for Harper as well but didn’t dare chance it, knowing the hospital would be quickly filling up with wounded.

Stuffing the bread into his makeshift pack, he turned to head back to the others and found himself locking eyes with Marcus. 

His heart sank and he stiffened instinctively. Fear gripped him and even as he braced for punishment he tried desperately to think of a way to keep Harper and Twig out of it. The guard held his gaze for a long time, so long Dylan was starting to forget his fear of punishment and wonder what was going on. Then suddenly, almost so faint he wasn’t sure if he actually saw it, Marcus nodded once before turning away. The Nietzschean walked calmly back to the mine and disappeared inside, almost as if he’d forgotten all about Dylan.

Not at all sure what had just happened, Dylan kicked himself into motion and raced back to his friends.

“Come on,” he whispered, dragging them to their feet before they had time to reply. “We’re going now.”

“But, Dylan…” Twig whispered. His eyes were huge and he was shaking like a leaf. Dylan realized that he was ripping the boy away from the only home he’d ever known, and even horrible as it was, he was terrified to leave. Unfortunately, the captain didn’t have time to deal with that right now.

“Sh, Twig. You have to do exactly what I tell you right now, and you have to be very quiet. Trust me. Now, give me your bucket and then help Harper. Make sure he doesn’t fall.”

Gulping, the little boy handed the bucket over and grabbed Harper’s hand. Dylan stuffed his bundle of supplies inside the pail and then pushed them both forward. 

Chains and fences are never a good mix, but throw in a terrified little kid, a blind and crippled crew member, and threat of death or torture if caught, and Dylan was ready for a complete nervous breakdown by the time they made it through the third fence. This one had survived mostly intact and they’d had to go up and over it, the barbed wire cutting into their skin with calculated cruelty.

But, as he hustled his two young charges off into the woods and away from the camp, Dylan knew it was worth every cut and scrape. It was freezing and they were hungry and tired and scared, but they were finally free.


	57. Chapter 56

**Chapter 56**

_I woke up in the morning, I glanced upon the wall.  
The roaches and the bedbugs were having a game of ball. _

_The score was six to nothing, the roaches were ahead.  
A bedbug hit a home run and knocked me out of bed!_

_It ain't gonna rain no more, no more,  
It ain't gonna rain no more,   
How in the heck can I wash my neck   
If it ain't gonna rain no more?_

\- Campfire Song

*****

“Come on, Harper. One foot after the other… That’s good…”

Harper grimaced weakly and let his head fall forward. “Boss…”

“Just a little farther, Harper,” Dylan said quickly, guessing the engineer’s words. The boy was leaning heavily on him, a combination of sickness and intense pain added to bloody, mangled bare feet making walking a monumental task for the kid. Dylan hated pushing him like this, causing him more anguish, but he also knew they had to get as far from the camp as they could. “Just a little farther and then we’ll find somewhere to stop for the night, okay?”

“’K,” Harper ground out through gritted teeth as he shuffled forward another step, their chains clanking eerily in the failing light.

Dylan sighed and not for the first time in this very long day wondered if this was even worth it. He stilled those thoughts quickly, though, knowing it was. No matter what the pain, or even if they died on this desperate journey, it would still be worth it. They were free, Harper and Twig were free. No more whips slashing them, or Niets yelling at or beating them. They were free. 

And they were _not_ going to die. They’d made it this far, there was no way he was losing either of them now.

Squaring his shoulders with determination once again, Dylan glanced up to make sure he could still see the river in the distance. That river was their salvation and their guide. He knew from that first horrible march to the camp that the road followed the river down and out of the mountains before it took off separately across the woods and plains. Sticking to the river not only gave them an assured source of water, but kept them from getting turned around.

Confident that he knew its location and wouldn’t get lost, Dylan veered his little group off to the left. Those darker spots against the rocky hillside were probably caves, and at this point as he listened to Harper’s hacking cough and watched Twig shivering, Dylan knew that any little shelter would help.

*****

“You know, Boss, I still can’t believe it.”

“Believe what, Harper?” Dylan asked, reaching over to tuck the blanket tighter around his friend.

“Well, two things really,” the young man said, too worn out to protest the older man’s fussing. “One – that you even managed to get a fire going. But two – that you dared. I mean, remember the Ubers? Big fellows with supersensitive…um…senses?”

Dylan laughed – something which felt really, really good. “Oh yes, I remember them. But, the wood’s dry, the fire is well hidden, and we’re inside a cave. The risk of any smoke escaping is very slim, a risk I was more than willing to take given the chance to warm us all up and have an actual, hot meal. As for starting the fire…well that part was easy. Already have plenty of steel,” he said, letting the chains binding his wrists jangle purposefully. “Just had to find the right rock to complete the equation.”

Harper laughed weakly as well, a laugh that dissolved into a cough. “That’s right. I keep forgetting that you are Mr. Boy Scout here,” he finally said when it cleared enough he could speak again.

“Well, even if I hadn’t loved camping as a kid, the Academe was pretty insistent on survival skills, especially for Special Ops Officers.” Dylan paused to look around for a moment, taking in the sight of his two young friends and their surroundings. The cave was a good size, not too big, but large enough to provide shelter and hide any smoke from their fire. Harper and Twig were bundled up in their blankets; the little boy snuggled up against the engineer’s side and staring with fascination at the dancing flames in front of them. It was almost kind of cozy, in a desperate sort of way. Dylan allowed himself to relax marginally. They needed this, oh how they needed this.

“What about you, though?” Dylan continued. “I thought survival skills where your forte, being from Earth and all.”

“City boy, remember?” Harper said. “Give me concrete and sewers and I’m your man, but surviving in ghetto central just doesn’t go far to getting you your _Great Outdoors Merit Badge_.” His face took on a thoughtful expression, as if he was remembering things from long ago. “I think I remember seeing all of three trees while living on Earth, and two of those were mostly dead. I’m still not sold on this whole camping thing, but if you promise not to tell a soul, I’ll let ya in on a little secret. I used to dream about trying it. Nana’d tell me stories involving weird rituals – things like campfire songs, fishing, sleeping under stars, strange treats called s’mores. Siobhán, Declan, and I used to build a tent of blankets in the main room of our shack and pretend we were living it up in the wilderness, somewhere where the wildlife didn’t want to infest ya.”

“Sounds like good times,” Dylan said gently.

“Yeah, it was,” Harper answered with a sad smile.

“Tell you what, when we get off this crappy planet and take care of a few things, we are all taking a vacation. I’m gonna take you two camping the right way. Heck, we’ll bring the whole crew.”

Twig’s face lit up at that. “Me? I get to go, too?”

“Of course. Wouldn’t be any fun without you,” Dylan assured him. “Besides, you’ve got perfect camping skills. That was some mighty fine fishing you did tonight. I never could have done that good, not with these stupid chains on.”

“It was fun!” Twig grinned. “And they tasted really good. Can we do that again?”

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll be eating fish again before we’re done.”

“Which reminds me…” Harper interrupted, grimacing as he leaned his lacerated back against the cave wall for support, trying futilely to get comfortable. “How come you never told me you had a knife?” he shot at Dylan, raising his eyebrows in question.

“It was safer that way,” Dylan answered practically. “Stealing and hiding contraband weapons didn’t strike me as a healthy hobby. If I got caught I didn’t want you to know anything about it. I was trying to keep you from getting hurt more.”

“Thanks, I guess,” Harper replied. “Still, in the future, those kind of things would be really nice to know about, okay?”

“I’ll make a note, Mr. Harper.”

Harper broke into a hacking cough, but it wasn’t as harsh as it had been during the day. A good meal and the warmth of the fire and several blankets seemed to be doing their job. Wearily he blinked his eyes, unwilling to give in to sleep just yet.

“Harper,” Twig said suddenly, gazing up at his friend with huge, dark eyes. “Could you…um…tell me more about Jack?” The question was hesitant, almost fearful. The last time he’d asked it, Harper had shut him out and pushed him away.

Harper closed his eyes for a moment, remembering as well, then opened them and smiled at the boy. “Sure, Twig. Might as well start practicing on those campfire stories now, right Dylan?”

“Smart plan.”

“So, where were we, Kiddo? Had Jack met the sleeping princess and the seven vertically challenged men yet?”

*****

“Harper?”

Harper opened his eyes tiredly, knowing Twig was lying right next to him, probably facing him now. He was exhausted but he hurt too much to sleep, still he’d been pretending to rest, not wanting to worry Dylan. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one not sleeping.

“Yeah, Twig?” he whispered.

“Do you think Peter and Dakin are dead?” the child asked, his voice wavering with tears.

Harper paused, his own emotions threatening to rise up at the soft question. “I don’t know,” he finally answered gently.

“Are they in Heaven with Simon and Ethan if they are?”

“Yes,” Harper answered firmly. “I’m sure they are.”

“I’ll miss them.”

“Me, too.”

“Harper, if they aren’t dead, do you think they’ll be mad at me for leaving?”

“Oh, no, Twig,” Harper whispered fervently. “They’ll be very, very happy that you left. They wanted you to be free, not be a slave anymore, okay. I want you to remember that, no matter what.”

“’K,” Twig answered again.

“Better go to sleep now,” Harper told the boy. The engineer felt him nod and snuggle closer, and after a while his breathing evened out in the rhythm of sleep. For a long time Harper just lay there, listening to the sound of his friends breathing around while his thoughts wandered.

*****

They walked for days. After the first couple nights on the run spent in, all things considered, relative comfort, things took a decided slide downhill. Three days out it started to rain – hard. Not even Dylan’s formidable survival skills could combat soggy wood, wet vegetation, and lack of adequate shelter. If they’d been cold and miserable in the camp it was nothing compared to how they were now. Dylan tried to keep them warm, wrapped a blanket around Harper’s bare shoulders and made Twig do the same, but it didn’t help much. The cough deepened and Harper’s complexion stayed constant at a deathly pale that bordered on gray.

Five days out the rain turned to snow for the first time and Dylan began to question if they would actually survive this. That same day they ate the last of the very hard, very dry bread Dylan had stolen from the camp. The fish Dylan and Twig had caught that first night were long gone as well. Now the captain would have to scavenge for food in earnest in a barren, winter wasteland. It wasn’t impossible, but what he found was hardly enough to consider life sustaining. Still, they kept going. They had nothing else to do, and nothing else to lose.

As the days passed, Twig began to struggle as well. The longer they walked, the worse it got, and by the time they would stop at night, his face was drawn and pinched with pain. He never said a word, but Dylan saw his little hands pressed tightly to his chest, heard the ragged breathing. It tore the captain up inside. He helped the child when he could, and cursed the whole Nietzschean race and their cruelty when he was forced to let the boy struggle on his own so he could help Harper.

And so they walked, and Harper’s feet turned to bloody shreds again from the sharps rocks and rough ground. Dylan tried carrying him but the cumbersome chains were always in the way, and his own strength just wasn’t what it used to be. Instead, he sacrificed half of one of their precious blankets to wrap them as tightly and thickly as possible. It seemed to help for a while. But if things kept going how they were and that cough meant what he was sure it did, it might not matter…

Sometimes, Dylan wasn’t even sure the young man was really with them, reality-wise. In the daylight hours he started mumbled conversations with people who weren’t there, and at night he spent his dreams lost in a world of his own. Occasionally, Dylan caught names – Trance, Rommie, Beka, Brendan, Colleen…

And if Dylan thought, every once in a while, that if he turned quickly enough one of the shadows of the evening might not be a shadow at all, he reminded himself how tired he was, how worn and stressed, how tightly-strung his emotions and senses really were, and always managed to convince himself otherwise.

( **Author’s Note** : At some future point an alternate ending of this story will be posted. For all interested in reading it and knowing how it connects to the original, this is the point that the two versions diverge.)

*****

Dylan was trying to help Harper across a particularly rocky patch of ground when he felt a small tug on his sleeve.

“Not now, Twig,” he said, weariness making his tone shorter than he meant.

Twig stopped, but only for an instant. Seconds later the little boy was pulling on his sleeve again. “Dylan, Dylan… Look…”

The captain sighed and bit his tongue before he said something he’d regret. Pretty much carrying Harper, Dylan picked him up and set him down gently on the other side of the rocks. Then he turned to the tiny slave.

“Yes, Twig? What do you want me to see?”

“Over there,” the little boy pointed off in the distance across the open plain they were now at the edge of and to where a small grove of trees cut across it. “What is that?”

Dylan followed his finger, sucking in a small breath of surprise when he saw what Twig was asking about.

“What is it?” Harper asked, hearing Dylan’s gasp of surprise. It was a “good day’ today, the kid being mostly lucid. He was actually making an effort to follow along with what was happening around him.

“It’s a ship,” Dylan breathed reverently.

“A ship?” Harper was skeptical.

“Well, the remains of one, a crashed one,” Dylan clarified. “But still, who knows what we could find on there that could help us.”

“Or _who_ you might find on there,” the engineer added darkly, bringing Dylan sharply back to reality.

“Right, but it’s still a risk worth taking. You two stay here; I’m gonna go scout it out.”

“Be careful,” Harper croaked before dissolving into a fit of coughing.

Dylan could see the worry etched deeply onto his friend’s face and sighed tiredly. “I promise, no heroics, Harper,” he said gently, letting his hand rest for just a moment on the boy’s arm to reassure him. Touch was important to Harper nowadays; it kept him grounded in a very dark world. “I’ll be careful. Here, Twig,” he added to the child, “you’re in charge of our stuff while I’m gone.” He pulled the knife out and tucked it into his waistband, then set the bucket with their pitiful belongings in it beside the boy. “Keep an eye on Harper.”

“Okay, Dylan,” Twig replied quietly, slipping his hand into the engineer’s good one.

“Good boy,” Dylan nodded. He started across the open space, trying to stay low and keep his chains quiet. He’d only gone ten steps when he heard a small sob and the sound of someone in distress calling his name. It was Twig. He glanced back to find the boy crying in Harper’s arms, shaking.

“What is it, Twig?” he asked, coming back quickly. 

“You’re not coming back, are you? You’re gonna leave us,” Twig sobbed.

“Oh, Twig,” Dylan breathed, pulling the boy into his own arms and sparing a moment to think of just how much the kid had lost in the last little while, how many family members had ‘gone away’ and never come back. “Of course I’m not gonna leave you,” he whispered. “Ask Harper.” But when he looked at Harper he surprisingly saw some of the same doubts reflected on his face as well. The young man was trying to hide it, but Dylan saw real fear there – fear of being left alone, abandoned by his captain and friend in the dark.

“Okay you guys,” Dylan said shaking his head. He pulled Twig as close as his chains would let him, then reached out and grabbed Harper’s good hand, not oblivious to the slight tremble he felt there. “I am _not_ leaving you. I would never, ever do that. After all this time I thought you two had that figured out, but if it makes you feel better I’ll tell you again. It’s just that it is too dangerous for us all to go over there and I’m not putting you into any more danger than I have to. You’re my crew, my family. That’s what captains do, protect their crew. So just stay safely hidden here and I’ll be back as soon as I can. Promise.”

Twig sniffed loudly, but finally nodded his head. 

“Go on, Boss,” Harper said. “We’ll be fine.”

“I’ll be back soon.” His two charges still appeared rather worried, but neither protested this time, so he carefully set off across the meadow for a second time, wondering just exactly which type of luck was smiling on them today, the good kind, or the bad…


	58. Chapter 57

**Chapter 57**

_It is possible to provide security against other ills, but as far as death is concerned, we men live in a city without walls._

-Epicurus

*****

Dylan studied the downed ship carefully as he approached it. In a former life it had probably been a freighter, much like the _Maru_ , although slightly smaller. Now it was well on its way to being reclaimed by the planet it sat on. Moss and grass grew in patches on its hull, and a small tree was even sprouting from one of the aft thrusters. But, it _was_ still ship enough it could prove very helpful to them, or provide adequate cover for any number of threats as Harper had truthfully pointed out. As the captain neared the dark, open doorway, he really wished he had a force lance or ten handy instead of a pitiful, pilfered knife.

His back against the ship’s side right outside the doorway, Dylan took a deep breath before swinging around and entering, knife held ready before him. In the seconds that followed, nothing pounced, growled, moved or attacked, which he took to generally be a good sign, and the little hairs on the back of his neck weren’t standing on end any more than they had been for the last twelve months. By the time his eyes had adjusted to the gloom of the ship’s interior, he’d decided it was safe.

Well, safe might be the wrong word to use he amended as he took in the sagging roof, the hanging wires and pieces of fallen and jutting metal that crisscrossed the cabin, but at least there were no Nietzscheans lurking around. Ten minutes later he had searched the whole ship, sent two birds and one badger-like-thingie packing, and was on his way back for Twig and Harper.

*****

“Welcome to Hotel Rellim’s Penthouse suite,” Dylan said with a smile as he led the two boys carefully into the ship. “I made us reservations for the night.”

“Can we get room service in?” Harper asked with a snort, wrinkling his nose. “Smells a little musty…”

“Think it was the previous guests. I evicted them without notice and they left without paying.” Dylan smiled again, enjoying the banter before turning serious again. “But, it’s dry, it has the potential to be warm-ish, I found cans of something with an expiration date I chose not to look at in the cupboard, and the crème de la crème is the real, actual bunk in the corner. Still want to leave?”

“Does the bunk have a mattress?” Harper asked, longing oozing from his voice.

“Genuine imitation only partly decayed foam, almost big enough for three.”

“Take me there, oh mighty leader,” the engineer announced, holding out his hand. “And tell the hotel clerk not to send up a wake-up call.”

*****

“Harper!” Dylan cried in alarm as he walked in the door with Twig. He’d only been gone for two minutes, three tops, taking the tiny slave to visit the improvised little boy’s room. He figured surely Harper could manage on his own for that long, but obviously he’d been wrong.

“Harper, what the heck are you doing?” he asked again in alarm as he deposited Twig safely on the moldy bunk. 

Harper ignored him as he carefully worked his way along the wall, his fingers searching every nook and cranny. Then his bloody feet tripped over an obstacle the young man couldn’t see and he had to catch himself on the wall with his broken hands. The captain winced as the engineer hissed in pain but still didn’t answer his question.

“Harper!” Dylan tried again, moving quickly to intercept him. He was worried the boy was delusional from his illness again. “Stop! What are you doing walking around?” He grabbed Harper firmly by the upper arms, halting him. The young man sighed, a sigh that turned into a hacking cough.

“Boss,” he finally managed to say, “I’m good. Not nuts, not leaving, just looking around, okay?”

“Why? Harper you need to sit down and rest. You’re tired, sick, and frankly a mess. The last thing you need is to go exploring.”

Stubbornly, Harper tied to shake Dylan’s hands off his arms. “Dylan,” he said, “this is a ship, or at least it was. A ship means parts and wires and engines and tools – the things _I’m_ good at. This is the first chance I’ve had since Felix got his slimy hands on me to mess around with this stuff. You and I both know that even if we make it back to the city, we’re never gonna get off this freakin’ planet without a little help. Maybe there’s something here I can patch together to get a signal out to Rommie.” He paused for a moment, swallowing thickly. “Boss, I’ve been nothing but baggage this whole time, relying on you for everything. Please, let me do this. Let me try and help get you guys out of here before – ”

He broke off abruptly, but Dylan’s brain had no difficulty finishing the sentence. “ _-before I die._ ” The captain dropped his hands and looked away, his eyes suddenly moist. It was no secret that Harper had been going quickly downhill, but what they both feared and knew was coming sat heavy and unspoken between them.

“I thought technology wouldn’t work on this planet,” he finally said, dodging the topic once again.

“I have an idea that might get us around that.”

“Fine,” Dylan sighed, “but let me help you. Tell me what you need, and I’ll try and find it for you. You sit.”

“Bossy,” Harper muttered as he let Dylan lead him back to the bunk.

“Well, you’re the one that started calling me Boss. Your fault.”

Twig scooted over to make room for his friend, curiosity and excitement at the prospect of watching and learning something new shining on his gaunt face. “Can we build something really big, with lots of different parts? Or make the ship fly again?”

Dylan and Harper both laughed. “How ‘bout we start a little smaller, kiddo. We’ll work up to the ships flying part,” Harper said with affection, reaching out to gently hug the little boy.

Slight disappointment flashed across the small slave’s face, but then he shrugged. “K.”

“All right, then,” Dylan said, “what do you need?”

*****

They worked for the rest of the afternoon and into the night. Twig eventually lost the fight with sleep and crashed on the bunk behind them. Harper’s cough got worse and worse and his eyes took on a slightly glassy look that sent fear straight to the pit of Dylan’s stomach, but he wouldn’t stop. Dylan pleaded, begged, ordered and threatened, but all in vain. Harper’s brain was going full throttle, but more importantly, he knew he could do this and it was their one and only shot. He couldn’t give up. 

Not that it wasn’t hard and frustrating. Most of the work he was trying to do was too small and delicate for the clumsy, broken hands of a blind man. Dylan found he had to do much of the actual engineering, and he tried not to take it personally when Harper’s extreme frustration with him sometimes showed as he walked him through step by step. There was a reason he became a captain and not an engineer…

When it got dark, Dylan rummaged around until he found a stock of emergency candles. Light or dark might make no difference to Harper anymore, but he darn well needed to see the teeny-tiny wires he was trying to splice together. The candles bathed their area of the ruined ship in a warm light, but also stirred up weird, unsettling shadows around the edges. He blinked as one of the shadows settled into the strangely familiar form he could almost make out, the one he’d been pretending didn’t exist for several nights now. He turned away, shivering, back to his work and his friends.

Harper was lying down now. He wasn’t sleeping – he still refused to give in that much – but he simply didn’t have the strength to sit any more. He was a living skeleton, more dead than alive, his fingers gently stroking the dirty fur of his beloved rabbit’s foot and a faraway look in his eyes. Dylan was losing him. He knew it, Harper knew it, even Twig knew it and there was absolutely nothing in the whole universe that he could do to stop it. It broke his heart.

“Harper,” he whispered thickly, fighting with his emotions, “I think I’m done.”

The boy blinked for a moment, then shook his head, coming back from whatever distant place he’d been at. “You sure you wired it right? Won’t work if you crossed the wires.”

“I’m sure, Mr. Harper. I followed your instructions exactly.”

“Let me see it,” he demanded anyway, holding out his crippled hand. Carefully, Dylan placed the tiny contraption on his palm. Harper examined it for several minutes with his the fingers of his right hand before he gave a satisfied nod.

“Should I turn it on then?” the captain asked.

“No, wait,” Harper said, struggling to sit back up. “You need a jar.”

“A jar?” Dylan questioned, confused.

“Yeah, a glass one. And water and some salt. This place has to have some salt, right?”

“Water? Salt? Harper, what are you talking about? How is that going to help us?”

Harper sighed, his face clearly showing that he wished he could just do things without having to explain them to dumb captains. “I don’t know for sure yet, I haven’t worked it all out, but I’m pretty sure that sodium somehow negates the effects of this blasted mineral that is keeping this planet firmly in the dark ages. That’s why the nanobots are able to work once they’re inside someone; the salt in the body insulates them against it. And the city…it’s right next to an ocean full of salt water.” He stopped to cough weakly, but finally Dylan could see where he was going with this and picked up where he left off.

“So, if we put the signal inside a jar of salt water, we can turn it on without having the planet kill it. That’s why you had me build it with a miniature shield. To keep the water from leaking inside it,” Dylan finished as he moved around, looking for what they needed. Harper just nodded in reply, sinking back down to lie on the bunk.

“How do we know the wrong people won’t pick up this signal as well?” Dylan hated to ask it, but it was a rather pressing concern. 

“They probably will,” Harper responded softly, “but they won’t think it’s anything but static. However if _Andromeda_ passes anywhere close enough to pick it up, it’ll trigger a program in Rommie to come get me.”

Dylan paused to look at his engineer, unable to stop the slight frown of disapproval that crossed his face. “You built her with your own personal homing device included?”

“You’re gonna complain now?” the young man shot back.

“No,” Dylan responded, “but I think we might have a long conversation about ethics and moral responsibility at a later date.”

“Peachy. I’ll put it on my calendar.” 

Dylan just shook his head and went back to his search. He found an old jar that had miraculously survived the crash, although the lid had popped off and the contents were long gone. Still one whiff and he knew what it had held – pickles. Who knew how many years hadn’t been able to erase that odor. He filled it half full with water he’d fetched earlier in Twig’s bucket. Salt proved a little trickier to find. He finally found a corroded bag at the back of a twisted cupboard. There was barely any left, maybe two teaspoons. He dumped it all in and prayed it would be enough.

“All right, Mr. Harper. I think we’re ready.”

“Okay, well here goes nothing.”

*****

Rommie stopped walking with a gasp, throwing her hands out to steady herself on the corridor walls.

“What is it?” Beka asked in alarm, coming up beside her friend. They’d finally received their blasted clearance and managed to land the ship on the planet. Now Rommie was going with Beka to see her and Tyr off. Patch had to stay with his ship, it would arouse suspicion if he did anything else, and as much as she loathed staying behind on a rescue mission where she would surely be needed, Rommie herself would turn into nothing but a worthless bunch of non-functioning metal and wires if she ventured more than two feet outside the city walls. So the search and rescue effort was up to Tyr and Beka.

“Rommie!” Beka asked again when the android failed to answer her the first time.

“It’s him, Beka,” Rommie whispered, her hands forming into fists. “It’s Harper!”

“What?” the blonde woman cried. “What are you talking about?”

“A signal. I just got a signal and it triggered a program only Harper could have installed. It’s him, I know it is, Beka, and they’re only two clicks away! On horseback you could be at their location in roughly three days!”

Beka sucked in her breath, unable to speak, a look of wild hope and longing dancing through her eyes. Strangely, she saw the same look reflected back at her from her usually more clinical and rational friend.

“Go,” Rommie said simply. “Go bring them home.”


	59. Chapter 58

**Chapter 58**

_I waited for you today  
But you didn't show  
No no  
I needed you today  
But where did you go  
You told me to call  
Said you'd be there  
And though I haven't seen you  
Are you still there?_

_I cried out with no reply  
And I can't feel you by my side  
So I'll hold tight to what I know  
You're here and I'm never alone_

_And though I cannot see you  
And I can't explain why  
Such a deep reassurance  
You've placed in my life  
We cannot separate  
Cause you're part of me  
And though you're invisible  
I'll trust the unseen_

\- BarlowGirl 

*****

Dylan and his little group didn’t move on the next day. They woke to three inches of snow with more still falling, and Harper’s cough had taken a decided turn for the worse. The dry cough of before had been replaced by a wet, ragged hacking that told Dylan the boy’s lungs were starting to fill up with liquid. It was a catch twenty-two; move on in weather that would most likely kill the frail engineer, or stay there and lose precious days that Harper didn’t have to waste. He hated it. 

In the end, he decided the certainty of the frigid weather was the most immediate evil, especially as he saw the young man in the tepid morning light – wearily propped up on the bed, exhausted by endless pain and coughing. The scabbed and oozing wounds from the whip still stood out angry and red against the grey pallor of his bare skin, and his chained limbs remained limp and still. Once again, Dylan was struck with how small and terribly frail he looked, and how helpless he was to fix it.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t try. He searched the wreck from top to bottom, looking for anything that might help them, but especially a medical room, drug cabinet, first aid kit – anything. He found nothing. Whatever the ship might have had at one time, the survivors of the crash had taken it with them.

The only comfort he could find was the fact that at least Harper was relatively warm and dry. Twig, too. 

Thoughts of Twig made his heart break again. As much as they’d both tried to keep it from the boy, Twig sensed the truth of Harper’s condition. With eyes full of sad understanding, the tiny slave quietly refused to leave his friend’s side. He spent the day talking to the engineer while he gently stroked his good hand, telling him stories as Harper had done for him so often in the past. Even though he could tell it was difficult for him, Dylan watched Harper struggle to answer the child – keep up his end of the conversation and reply to the boy’s questions. The love and dedication that showed… Dylan was extremely moved as he understood the depths of love Harper truly felt for the boy, and a bit ashamed to acknowledge that a year ago, safely tucked away on his cozy spaceship, he would have flippantly laughed away the thought of Harper even being capable of that kind of caring. Oh, how much he’d learned; how blind he’d been. The universe called him a hero – brave, loyal, good; but it had taken a crippled young man and a tiny slave to teach him true bravery, true loyalty – real goodness.

By midday, emotions were overwhelming him and he couldn’t stay in that place, watching. Couldn’t sit there helpless anymore. He told Harper and Twig he was going to scout around and stepped out into the falling snow, his chains completely silent for once as he trudged through the white drifts, fighting for control.

*****

The deep shadows of nighttime were hugging the edges of the wreck when Harper made a quiet request. He wanted to go outside; he wanted to hear the snow and feel the stars. 

There was something in the boy’s voice… Something that meant Dylan shortly found himself sitting on a log next to a Harper cocoon of blankets, Twig on his lap. Harper leaned against him, the cold air putting his cough at rest for once, and tipped his head back as if he was gazing at the sky. Unconsciously, Dylan mirrored him…

…and let out a silent gasp.

“Beautiful, isn’t it,” Harper whispered.

Breathtaking was more like it. All around them stretched a pristine landscape, perfect white snow broken only by groves of silent trees, their limbs draped with it. A moon hung low and huge in the wide, black sky, bathing the world with soft, silver light. Around the moon danced millions upon millions of twinkling stars. It was...indescribable. The silence, the wonder…it echoed of calmness – peace.

How long had it been since he looked for beauty in something? How had a blind man seen it before he did?

They sat for a long time - not talking, just soaking it all in. It was one of those rare moments in life that touch a person to the core, something simple and yet indescribable, a memory recorded not by the mind but by the heart on the soul.

Even lost in the beauty and peace of the moment, Dylan still noticed that Twig was staring at something, or rather, trying not to. He followed the boy’s eyes and nodded. “I see her, too,” he whispered gently. Their ethereal shadow, both solid and unseen, had followed them. He gave the boy a tiny hug, understanding all the confessions, questions, and relief that went unspoken. And somehow she – their long denied companion – belonged, did nothing to diminish the loveliness or break the mood.

Snatches of memories flashed through Dylan’s mind as he continued to sit there: whispered words, cries in the night, sentences left dangling… “Harper,” the captain spoke quietly, glancing back at the girl-not-there, “who is Colleen?” It was important. Dylan knew this – the answer was tied and connected to his friend’s soul, wrapped up in the very essence of what made him. So important that he’d always known instinctively that to ask was taboo. But here, with the stars, and the moonlight, and the soul-cleansing snow, it was time. It was like some unseen hand had reached down and stopped time, stopped the pain, paused the life-sucking illness and cough and given them this moment.

“Colleen was my sister,” Harper finally said, not sounding surprised by the question. “Colleen Rόisín Harper.”

Dylan waited, sadness filling him at this new knowledge.

“I was six when she was born,” Harper went on, somehow finding the strength to tell this one last story. “My parents were so happy. They’d given up hope of having another kid that lived. But, after a few months, we started to realize something was wrong.” Deep sadness filled his voice. “More wrong than just being a cold and hungry human baby in a ghetto on Earth.” The boy sighed deeply. “We managed to sneak her to one of the secret Red Cross stations run by sympathetic off-worlders, but there was nothing they could do. Maybe on another planet, or in your glorious Commonwealth, or anywhere else, but not…”

Harper paused for a while, closing his eyes and fighting sadness as he mulled over memories long buried because they meant too much. Dylan just pulled Twig closer and waited, letting the serene calmness of the night wrap comfort around his friend in a way he couldn’t.

“As she got older, her legs and arms started to twist and harden, and her movements became stiff and jerky. She couldn’t walk and she never learned to talk, not in the normal way, but I always understood her.” Harper turned his head to face his captain suddenly. “You know, I looked it up once back in the day. When I first got access to Rommie’s files. I wanted to know what had been wrong with my sister. Cerebral Palsy. Completely eradicated on ninety-eight percent of planets during the Commonwealth, and one hundred percent preventable on the others – as long as proper care and treatment were given. Ironic, isn’t it,” Harper said bitterly. “My little sister was crippled by something that ‘didn’t exist’.” Anger crept into his voice as he went on. “We had to be very careful, keep her hidden. Defective Kludges were to be turned over to the Ubers at birth and killed, and families that didn’t and got caught hiding them would be broken up – parents killed and any kids sold into slavery.”

Dylan felt his blood start to burn hot at everything he was hearing, the injustices of it all, and he turned away. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, guilt burning in him for this child who had suffered, for _all_ children who had suffered since the Fall, including the two sitting with him.

“Why?” Harper asked simply, anger melting away like energy he didn’t have. “It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have stopped it.” He gave his friend a small shrug of his shoulders, then continued with his story.

“Mom and Dad were busy trying to keep us all alive, so it was my job to watch after Colleen. I would put her on my shoulders and take her everywhere with me. She loved it, and I didn’t mind.” He laughed a little, as if remembering good times.

“She had a favorite song, this old Irish ballade called _Colleen Malone_. Called it her song, since it had her name. She’d ask me to sing it for her every day at least once. Caught no end of flak from some of the other guys for that but it was guaranteed to bring out her smile, and when she smiled you’d never have known that she was just a starving, crippled, forgotten kid on a slave planet. It lit up her whole face.”

The young man closed his eyes, sinking deeper into his bundle of blankets. “She was so sweet and gentle, Dylan, despite all the horrors around us – so special. I know I’m gonna sound like the sappiest pansy ever when I say this, but it’s true. I didn’t just love her with my whole heart, she _was_ my heart. I’d have done anything for her.”

“I bet you were a wonderful big brother, Harper,” Dylan said sincerely. “She must have loved you just as much.”

A sad smile lifted Harper’s chapped lips, and when he opened them again, Dylan noticed tears were glistening in his eyes. Understanding filled the captain’s mind as the last bits and pieces of Harper’s past clicked into place. Harper’s gentleness and patience with Twig, his reluctance to play big-brother to the boy but once past that, his willingness to do anything for the tiny slave…

“She had this strange quirk,” Harper rode over Dylan’s thoughts as he continued his story. It was almost as though now that he’d started, he didn’t want to stop talking about the sister he missed so much. “She loved soft things, loved how they felt. The year she turned five, I don’t know how he managed to do it, but my dad got his hands on a rabbit’s foot and gave it to her.” Dylan noticed Harper was clutching his lucky rabbit’s foot as he talked. “She’d spend hours just holding it, stroking the fur or rubbing it on her face. I’d never seen something so little make someone so happy.”

The pause when Harper stopped this time was longer than ever, and Dylan instinctively sensed that the happy portion of this story was almost over.

“When I was almost thirteen, I sold some gadgets I’d built on the black market. Turned out my fence was a snitch and I landed myself in an Uber prison for a few months. Wasn’t too bad. Couple months sitting in a stone box staring at the wall and I was out, but it meant I was in the system – had made some Niet’s list of interest.

“Six months later they came.”

“They?” Dylan asked.

“Slavers. Five armed Nietzscheans just to take one scrawny kid who’d made the mistake of showing he had a few brain cells.” Harper’s voice went very soft, so soft Dylan had to strain to hear the words laced with sorrow. 

“Up to that point, my parents had always taken the duck and run approach to life on Earth,” Harper explained.

“Not a bad one, given the circumstances,” Dylan said, keeping his voice gentle. Harper was clearly working up to something deeply painful.

Harper gulped. “Well - with two kids to support, one of them illegal, I guess it was safer than defiance, no matter how much it rankled. But this time, they fought. They told me to take my sister and hide, to take care of her and keep her safe, and then they fought. Not that it did any good.” Harper’s voice cracked with an escaped sob. “I could have stopped it all, Dylan. If I’d just surrendered, gone with them then and become a good little slave, no one would have died. My family would still be alive. They died and it’s all my fault.”

“Harper,” Dylan said slowly, aware he was treading through long nurtured horror and guilt. “I’m not saying I have any idea what they went through or what they were feeling, but I’m betting they never regretted what they did, saving you. And if they could see you now, everything you’ve done, all the good you’ve help accomplish, they’d be more than proud.”

“You…you sound like Brendan,” Harper muttered after a while. “That’s what he tried to tell me.”

“Maybe you should listen to him?” Dylan suggested kindly. He let the silence stretch for a few moments, allowing Harper his private thoughts and grief before asking gently, “What happened next, Harper?”

Harper closed his eyes again, consciously letting the peace and beauty of the night wash over him, strengthening and fortifying. “After…well after, I went a little crazy with anger. Vowed never to let anyone touch my little sister and that I’d keep her safe no matter what. I dragged us both off to the safest place I knew, the sewers, and joined up with Brendan and his resistance fighters. I told myself it was because it wasn’t safe for me out there anymore, what with the Niets after me and all, and that I was doing it for Colleen, to protect her, but now I’ve had a year or ten to think about it, I know the truth. I wanted revenge, and Brendan offered the best way to get it. 

“I started building things, going on raids, taking more and more risks. I’d leave Colleen with my Nana or Brendan’s sister and be gone for hours, sometimes even days. I…I never stopped loving my sister, Boss, or thinking about her safety and well-being and stuff but… Well… I convinced myself that what I was doing was for her and not…not because I wanted to hurt them. I wanted to kill every last Uber, wipe them off the face of the Earth. I wanted them to feel the –” Harper gulped and broke off quickly, turning away.

“You were only a kid, Harper!” Dylan cried, dismayed at the self-loathing he heard in his friend’s voice. “A kid expected to do more than any kid should have to. You can’t be too hard on yourself. You kept her safe, alive.” Unable to stop himself, he glanced over at their shadowy companion before adding, “I’m sure she never blamed you.”

Harper’s scowl softened, and his voice dropped again. “That’s just it, Colleen never blamed anyone. She was too sweet. She loved me even more than before, which sometimes drove me nuts. She couldn’t see the mean, hateful person I’d turned into. There I was, the big brother who was supposed to love and protect her, and not only had I got her parents murdered, but then I dragged her off to live in dark tunnels that reeked, far away from the only home she’d ever known.. I never took her outside to play anymore, hardly ever spent time with her, and sometimes I would be gone for days without even telling her. But there she’d be when I came back, bouncing with joy and excitement when she saw me, awkwardly clapping her hands which was her way of showing she was happy. Sometimes it made me so angry I’d end up screaming in a deserted tunnel. And – sometimes it was the only thing that kept me alive and sane,” Harper added quietly.

“Won’t ever forget Christmas, the year I was fifteen. I’d scrounged everywhere to try and get Colleen something special, anything, even an extra helping of bread, but it didn’t matter. It was a bad year and there wasn’t a crumb. Went to bed feeling like the biggest loser in the world, and woke up to a badly wrapped package sitting in front of my face and a grinning Colleen.” Harper lowered his head, making it difficult for Dylan to catch his next words. The captain could hear the weariness from pain and illness creeping back into his friend’s voice and knew the brief respite from all the horrors of their daily life was nearing its end. “It was her rabbit’s foot,” the boy went on. “Nana had helped her wrap it. She gave it to me so I’d have luck in my _new job_.” His voice cracked. “I tried to give it back but she wouldn’t take it. Made me promise to always wear it.”

Despite the pain in those words, Dylan smiled. “She loved you, Harper. You couldn’t change that, or stop it, even if you felt you didn’t deserve it. Which, for the record, I think you did.”

“Not done with the story yet, Boss,” Harper muttered wearily. “I pushed her away. It hurt too much to…let her love me. I got cocky and angry and careless, and… My luck ran out. Went out to celebrate my sixteenth birthday in style and woke up in a slave pit. And it was in that dark, disgusting hole that I finally realized exactly what I’d done. How utterly I’d failed the one person I’d vowed to take care of.”

“Harper, I –”

“Just let me finish, Dylan,” Harper cut in, fighting back a cough. “I realized what a complete idiot I’d been, and I knew I had to get out. Had to escape so I could take care of Colleen again, make it up to her. It was the only thing that kept me going during all…that,” he said quietly, knowing Dylan would understand everything he wasn’t saying. “The only reason I even fought to stay alive when I usually just wanted to sit down and die. Colleen was out there, waiting for me to come home, and I couldn’t let her down again.”

“But, it didn’t matter,” the engineer whispered, his voice cracking as the tears he’d been holding back finally crested his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. “By the time I escaped, she was gone. Brendan had tried to take care of her, but he had an army to lead and it shouldn’t have been his job anyway. A Nietzschean cleansing-squad raided the tunnels while they were out one day and took her away. She’d been…dead a year before I even got there to find out.” 

Dylan saw a look more lost than anything he’d ever seen before settle on his friend’s face – one full of hurt and shame and loss, and he now understood the true reason Harper had never mentioned his time as a slave before. “I was such a fool, Dylan,” the young man continued. “The biggest failure in the universe. I couldn’t face it, couldn’t face anyone. So I ran away. I abandoned everyone, the few friends and family I had left, and took the first exit I could find. And…well…you know the rest of the life story of the worthless and pathetic Seamus Zelazny Harper.”

“Harper, you didn’t let anyone down,” Dylan tried to argue. “You were as much a victim as she was, stuck in an evil you had absolutely no control over!” 

But Harper shook his head, his tears falling softly as his breath caught – partly from crying and partly from repressed coughs. “She was my sister, Boss. My innocent, sweet, baby sister. I should have been able to protect her,” he gulped. 

Dylan hung his head, not sure what to do or say in the face of such a deep and long-held grief. But, to his astonishment, Twig did. Quietly, the little boy slipped off his lap and onto the bench next to Harper. Reaching up without hesitation, he wiped the tears off the engineer’s face. “I want to hear Colleen’s song.”

Harper turned blind eyes on the boy in surprised shock. “I…you…what?” His voice was weak now, and Dylan could see the tremors of fatigue and illness coming back.

“Colleen’s song. I want to hear it. Please?”

“Twig, it’s been so long… I’m…I’m not even sure I remember it.”

“Just try. I wanna hear it. And so does she,” Twig said, his small voice filled with weighty authority.

“Okay,” the young man agreed eventually. He turned his face away from his friends and toward the empty wild around them, self-conscious. His voice, barely a whisper, was scratchy and hoarse and not a little off-key when he started hesitantly. “It's been ten years and three since I first went to sea, since I sailed from old Ireland and home. But those hills lush and green were a part of my dreams, when I dreamed of my Colleen Malone.

“On the day I returned to my sorrow I learned, that the angels had called her away,” Harper’s voice cracked as the full meaning of what he was singing hit him with force, and he realized this wasn’t his sister’s song, it was his. Gulping, he let the tears stream out as he went on in a broken voice. “To a grave on a hill overlooking the mill, that's the place where she's sleeping today.

“As the soft breezes blow through the meadow I go, past the mill with the moss covered stone. Up the pathway I climb through the woods and the vines, to be with my Colleen Malone.”

“She was faithful each day as I sailed far away, there was no one but me that she loved. I remember those eyes soft and blue as the skies, and her heart was as pure as a dove…” His voice trailed off, the words replaced by a wet, hacking cough. “I…I can’t remember anymore,” he eventually choked out. Dylan wasn’t sure it was true, but wouldn’t have dreamed of asking for more anyway. His own face was suspiciously wet and he wasn’t sure he could take any more verses either.

“Come on, Harper,” he said, rising to his feet. “It’s time to get you back inside. You’ve sat out here in the cold long enough.”

Harper didn’t reply, just nodded, his cough back in full force. Gently, the captain helped the boy up and led his two young charges past their human shadow and back into the shelter of the wrecked ship.

*****

Dinner was another package of long expired food stores. _Clam chowder_ the package said. _Rubber erasers in goo_ Harper renamed it. Secretly, Dylan agreed with him, but, these days, food was food, and everyone ate it without complaining. 

The joke about the food was the last thing Harper said for a long, long time. Dylan watched his silent friend with a growing pit of despair in his stomach. After their strange and beautiful time outside and the secret he’d finally managed to share, the boy seemed to slide quietly but surely downhill. As though with the building of the signal and the sharing of that last piece of his past, he’d accomplished everything he was holding out for. And, now…now he was just waiting.

Fear and grief gripping his heart, Dylan put Twig to bed and then sat in the dark beside his frail friend, watching his thin chest rise and fall, counting each breath.

“Dylan?”

Harper’s whisper caught him off guard but his voice had never sounded so wonderful. “What, Harper?” he replied gently.

“Can I go home now?”

“Tomorrow. We’ll start on the trail again tomorrow, and it can’t be much farther. We’ll be home before you know it.”

“No, Boss. Not _Andromeda – home_. I’m tired, Dylan. I’m ready to go…home.”

It hit him like a ton of bricks. Harper was asking his permission to die.

What did he say? Every instinct inside him wanted to scream no and shake the boy until thoughts like that went away, but… Was that really fair? Was that really what was best for Harper, or just what he wanted? Harper had suffered so much, _was_ still suffering each and every minute of every day… Was it time to let him go? Let his friend finally find peace? 

Was it even his decision to begin with?

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. And in the end, it didn’t matter. As he sat there racked with indecision and sorrow, Harper’s eyes slid closed and his emaciated chest gradually stilled. 

Grief, hot and strong washed over the captain. It stole his breath, stung his eyes, clenched his chained hands into fists. It wasn’t fair! They’d come so far, were so close… Harper had suffered so much and hung on despite it all, and now with freedom just within their reach… It…it just wasn’t fair… 

Unable to look at the small, broken body before him, he hung his head. Unbidden, a picture of Harper rose to his mind – a short, funny fellow, hideously bright shirt, talking a mile a minute about some project that practically had him drooling, hands waving in excitement. 

Something fearsome rose up in Dylan at that mental image, fearsome, strong, and uncontrollable, and it shoved the grief aside. Anger? Determination? Selfishness? Dylan didn’t care. Perhaps it was purely his own selfish need not to be left alone, but he could live with that. He just knew this was wrong. Harper was not the pathetic, beaten figure lying before him in chains – Harper was that hyper, fashion-impaired boy genius and he _was_ going to get the chance to be that again! Harper was going to live. 

“No!” he suddenly felt himself shouting, glancing over at the shadowy presence in the corner, a presence that had been steadily coming into sharper focus as Harper faded away. “No! You can’t have him yet! It’s not your turn!”

And Dylan tipped back his friend’s head to begin breathing for him.

*****

Harper blinked several times as his eyes adjusted to the warm, bright light. The white sands of Infinity Atoll stretched far to his left, and the sparkling blue ocean lapped at his toes on the right. The only thing missing was a surfboard, he noted. He turned around to see if there might just be one behind him only to discover he wasn’t alone.

She was sitting on a large rock, her knees pulled up to her chest. Her strawberry-blonde pig-tails were done up in ribbons that matched the yellow of her sundress, and a very familiar grin was mingling with the freckles on her face.

“Colleen?” Harper asked, bewildered.

The girl nodded happily.

“So, am I –”

“Yes,” she answered before he could finish. “And no.” She slid off the rock and walked up to him, slipping her small hand into his.

“But, I can see…” he said, still confused.

“And I can walk and talk,” Colleen replied with a shrug, like it was no big deal. 

“Where are we?” Harper asked, looking around again at the achingly familiar landscape. “This isn’t quite what I imagined –”

“Expecting more fires and pitchforks?” his sister broke in sweetly, a sly grin on her face.

“No,” Harper replied indignantly. “Clouds and harps, thank you very much. And when did you get so cheeky, anyway?”

“You taught me,” she pointed a finger at him as she laughed, a clear laugh that sounded like bells tinkling and she skipped off a little ways from him.

“So, where are we?” Harper asked again as he followed, still trying to wrap his brain around the fact that he could see, and his little sister was here beside him, skipping and laughing and talking. “And how can I be both dead and not dead?”

“Silly Seamus, always asking questions. We’re in the Tween Place.”

“The what?”

“The Tween Place – between here and there. It’s a place for people to choose.”

“To choose to live or die, right?” Harper guessed, finally catching on. She nodded. “So, why are you here?”

She stopped skipping and turned back to him, a suddenly serious look spread across her face. “I’ve been taking care of you, Shay,” she said earnestly. “Watching over you. You’re very difficult to take care of, but I did it. Just like you did for me.”

Guilt ripped through Harper, and he turned away, sinking to his knees in the warm sand. “Colleen,” he stuttered brokenly, “I didn’t take care of you. I left you, broke my promise, let you get hurt – killed,” he cried, gasping at the pain saying those things gave him. 

He didn’t look up until he felt a pair of small hands on his shoulders. “Seamus Zelazny Harper, you stop that right now,” Colleen said firmly, rolling her eyes. It was amazing how like his mother she sounded when she said that. “You took the best care of me that anyone could. I loved you, more than anything, and I still do. You just gotta stop beating yourself up. You’ve got a gazillion other people to do that for you, I’ve been watching you, so I know.” 

Harper looked away, stubbornly refusing to accept the forgiveness his little sister was offering, a forgiveness he still felt he didn’t deserve. “Hey, hey, big brother,” Colleen said gently, ducking her freckled face to follow his as she knelt down in the sand next to him. “Don’t you remember? What you always told me? Don’t worry, be happy,” she smiled, rubbing the tears off his cheeks.

Finally, Harper felt something huge and heavy that had been sitting on his shoulders for as long as he could remember melt away. With a sob, he wrapped his arms around his sister and cried, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and let him.

Eventually they parted, Colleen’s hand slipping easily back down into his as they stood up, smiling at each other. “I’ve missed you, little sis,” Harper whispered fiercely. 

“Missed you, too, big bro,” Colleen laughed. “But you gotta go now.”

“What?” Harper said. “I just got here.”

“Your time to choose is up and you need to go back,” Colleen told him, solemn once more.

“Colleen, I don’t want to. I wanna stay with you. Die, move on, whatever you call it. I wanna go meet Mom and Dad and Nana and –”

His sister was shaking her head earnestly, pig-tails bobbing. “No, Shay, you can’t. It’s not your time yet. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you this whole time, ever since I started taking care of you, but you’ve always been stubborn. You never listened.”

“Colleen –” Harper tried again, but, in true Harper fashion, his sister overrode him again. 

“Shay, it’s not your time. The universe still needs you. Dylan and Twig need you. He’s never told you, but you remind Dylan of his little brother. And Twig needs a dad. And then there’s Beka. She’d fall apart without you there to bug her. And Trance –”

“Okay, okay,” Harper threw up his hands. “I get the point. Everyone needs the Harper. But Colleen, I need you guys, my family. I miss you so much.”

“We’re not going anywhere, silly. Still be here when it _is_ your time. Besides, we’re not _that_ far away.”

As she said it he could suddenly feel them, could feel the love and support of his family all around him, holding him, lifting him up. It didn’t matter that he still couldn’t see them, he knew they were there, just as they always had been. He’d just been too bitter or too busy to notice. It helped. It helped more than he could ever say, but it still didn’t fix everything.

“I’m…I’m scared, Colleen. I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to go back to the dark and the pain.”

“Sometimes, we have to do things we don’t like, Shay,” Colleen said with a wisdom far beyond her eleven years. “We don’t always get what we want in life. But, don’t lose hope. They’re on their way. Beka’s coming to get you, just like she promised.”

In the next instance, two things happened simultaneously. Harper saw a bright light in the distance, felt it start to pull on him, and on the other horizon two small shapes appeared, calling his sister’s name. Colleen turned to them and waved happily, then turned back to her brother.

“I gotta go now, Shay. I promised Declán and Siobhán I’d build a tree-house with them.” She smiled at him, that beautiful smile he remembered so well. “Love ya, big brother. I’ll be watching you.”

Before Harper could say anything she turned and skipped away, hair and dress bouncing. And then she was gone and Harper was falling, falling backwards through the light.

*****

Harper sucked in a ragged breath on his own and gasped, his eyes fluttering open. Muttering a small prayer of intense relief, Dylan let his arms drop and sagged by his side, weak from worry and burning determination. Gratefully, he hadn’t had to breathe for the boy for more than thirty seconds or so. 

“Dylan?” Harper croaked.

“Right here, Harper,” Dylan replied as he took the young man’s hand, not caring if the boy heard the tears in his voice. Glancing over at the corner, Dylan saw their huddled, ragged shadow…but she wasn’t ragged anymore. In her place stood a bright, freckle-faced girl who was already fading away. She smiled and waved at him, before melting into the ship. In seconds it was as though she’d never been there at all. Belatedly, he nodded after her then looked back at his friend. “Right here, Harper,” he repeated firmly. “Not going anywhere.”

“Me neither,” Harper relied softly. “Me neither.”

*****

_It's been ten years and three since I first went to sea  
Since I sailed from old Ireland and home  
But those hills lush and green were a part of my dreams  
When I dreamed of my Colleen Malone_

_On the day I returned to my sorrow I learned  
That the angels had called her away  
To a grave on a hill overlooking the mill  
That's the place where she's sleeping today_

_As the soft breezes blow through the meadow I go  
Past the mill with the moss covered stone  
Up the pathway I climb through the woods and the vines  
To be with my Colleen Malone_

_She was faithful each day as I sailed far away  
There was no one but me that she loved  
I remember those eyes soft and blue as the skies  
And her heart was as pure as a dove_

_All the years of my life I will not take a wife  
I will live in this valley alone  
Planting flowers around in this soft gentle ground  
That is holding my Colleen Malone_

\- Pete Goble and LeRoy Drumm


	60. Chapter 59

**Chapter 59**

_Generally, by the time you become Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But those things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand._

\- Margery Williams, _The Velveteen Rabbit_

*****

“Stupid planets,” Beka grumbled, pulling her jacket closer against the snow and wind. The snow had been falling off and on since they left the city, which sent her mood spiraling darker and darker, especially since she couldn’t help thinking that Harper was out here, somewhere, in this mess, and with the snow, how would they ever find him? 

_And was he even still alive to find?_

She promptly tried to squash the errant thought but found she couldn’t. Too many months of uncertainty had passed. The voice inside her was getting stronger as she rode through this barren, winter landscape, building up fear that this desperate rescue was too late.

Cursing her traitorous feelings, Beka glared out at her surroundings, hating everything about this planet from the snow to the horse lumbering beneath her.

“Beka.”

Tyr’s voice snapped her attention forward. “What?” she bit off.

“Wreckage - over there. A ship that some fool must have crashed long ago.”

“So?” she replied sourly.

“There are footprints around it. Someone has taken shelter there recently.”

Beka felt her heart quicken with fear, excitement, and apprehension. Tyr turned his horse off the path and emotions raging, Beka followed him. Silently, they made their way to a cluster of trees and dismounted, tying their horses to the trunks.

Tyr moved to the nearest set of tracks and crouched before them, studying them in the waning light. What he saw caused his normally solemn face to darken in a scowl as he drew his weapon. Silently, Beka followed his example. After all, who knew what or who they would find in this wreck? They shared a glance that spoke volumes then crept toward the downed spacecraft.

Inside it was dark and musty – depressing – and scarcely warmer than the frigged air outside. Beka felt a chill creep up her spine as they carefully picked their way through the dead ship. Her nerves were on edge and her emotions strung so tight she knew she would snap if this turned out to be a dead end. Or worse.

Beside her, Tyr wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Someone’s here,” he whispered. “I can smell them.”

In long ago, happier times, Beka would have made a comment about that, but not today – not here.

Up ahead, a weak pool of light spilled out around a corner. It flickered and waved, like a fire’s flame. Weapons drawn, Tyr and Beka approached the edge of the light. Locking eyes, a year’s worth of desperate hope passed silently between them. Then, with a single nod, they stepped around the corner and into the light.

For a moment, Beka couldn’t see anything but shadows barely held back by a lone, sputtering candle, but then something shifted slightly along the wall, drawing her gaze. Raising her weapon higher on instinct, she squinted into the gloom. There, on a bunk that looked ready to collapse at any moment, two creatures lay, vaguely human. The one closest to the front turned his head slightly toward her, and she watched as a small, painful smile cracked his lips.

“Hello, Beka.”

She forgot how to breathe. All air left her body and her world tunneled sharply, alarmingly down to one point.

“Harper?” It was a plea, a prayer, and a sob all in one.

The sad, pitiful smile returned. “Yeah.”

She’d waited for this moment for almost a year. Pictured it, dreamed of it, relied on it to keep her going from one day to the next. It was here now; she was living it, and she couldn’t do a thing. Her feet had grown roots, her tongue fused to her mouth, her heart shattered like falling glass. The wraith-like figure before her couldn’t be her Harper. It couldn’t be! Her world crashed down around her and Beka Valentine let it go, just let it crumble and fall.

*****

Tyr’s eyes traveled swiftly over the young engineer and the unknown child, seeing all without being told and already making and adjusting plans. He was not without compassion, disgust, and even fury at what he saw, but now was not the time to indulge in those emotions. One glance had been enough to tell him that time was not something Harper had left to waste. He pushed past Captain Valentine’s frozen form and approached the bed.

Harper coughed roughly and sagged back onto the bunk, eyes closing. “Drew the short straw in the rescue-mission-meeting, Tyr?” he croaked softly.

Tyr briefly wondered how the boy could tell it was them, but pushed the thought aside. It was irrelevant at the moment. “Hush, Little Man. You waste strength you cannot afford to lose on talking.”

A soft, sobbing wail suddenly assaulted his ears. Tyr glanced up to find the tiny child beside Harper staring at him with eyes swimming in pure terror and fear, his knees pulled tight to his chest as he unconsciously rocked forward and back.

“Twig… Hey, it’s okay, Twig,” Harper whispered to the child, ignoring Tyr’s warning about speech as he groped weakly for the boy. “He’s not gonna hurt us.” His voice was little more than a croak.

Tyr didn’t question who the child was or what he was doing there. The boy clung to Harper and the engineer, despite being at death’s door, tried to help him. It didn’t take his superior senses to recognize the bond of a parent and child, no matter how unexpected.

“Child,” Tyr said softly, crouching to the level of the crumbling bunk. “I am not here to hurt or harm you. You have no reason to believe me now, but in time you will see that not all Nietzscheans are like the ones you have known. Until then, trust Harper.”

“He’s okay, Twig,” Harper rasped again, fighting frame-shaking coughs. “This is Tyr. Remember I told you about him.”

The boy stared at him with huge, frightened eyes for an eternity. Had the circumstances and surroundings been different, Tyr would have been amused by the solemn depth of the child’s scrutiny, but not here. This was a serious gaze and he knew better than to make light of it.

“But he’s an Uber,” the child finally said to his idol, crestfallen.

“Yeah,” Harper whispered, his strength spent, “but he came to get us, so I’ll forgive him his genetic code. Just do what he says, okay.” The last words were so weak Tyr was glad of his enhanced hearing. He rose quickly to his feet, unwilling to waste any more time.

“Where is our intrepid Captain?” He didn’t doubt that the man was around. There was no possible way these two were trekking alone.

Harper tried to answer but the words got lost in the hacking coughs. He sagged into the bunk, eyes closed and all energy gone.

“He… he went for wood,” the child whispered timidly. “To make a fire. Melt snow for water.”

“Then I will go find him. Captain Valentine will remain here with you.”

Beka hadn’t moved from her place in the doorway. He pierced her with a pointed, knowing look and brushed past her without a word.

The movement pulled Beka from her stupor, but still she didn’t move, just stood there staring. She was in shock. She’d known finding Harper, seeing him after all this time would be rough. She’d steadied herself to expect the worst. But this? This was beyond anything she could have imagined or dreamed up. She never would have thought a person could look like this and still be moving, breathing. There was just nothing left of him.

Stick-like arms and legs caught in iron chains, paper-thin skin that was transparent in some places and thick with festering wounds in others… His spiky hair was gone, and dark, dark shadows ringed hollow eyes. This waif creature, this shadow of a human being, how could this be her Harper?

And then he called for her. He reached out with one hand and croaked her name, hesitant and searching. Floods of memories and feelings rushed in: Harper – new to the _Maru_ and the concept of trust but reluctant to let her leave and be alone, Harper caught in the depths of a nightmare and sobbing her name, Harper seeking company in her room after a stressful day of adjusting to a new life on _Andromeda_ , even Harper yelling at her as they engaged in one of their fast and furious fights that were the stuff of legends. This _was_ her Harper, the kid she counted as more of a brother than the one she shared blood with, and he was calling out for her. She rushed to him.

“Sh, Seamus,” she sniffed, tears wetting her cheeks. She sat on the edge of the bunk and carefully lifted him, pulling him back into her arms and rocking him like a baby. “I’m here, Seamus. I’m here. I tried so hard to come sooner but I couldn’t find you…” 

A hand crept up and found her arm, clutching it fiercely. “S’okay, Beka,” Harper croaked. “I knew you would come.”

Nothing else was said. There was nothing else to say. After several long minutes of watching, the little boy beside them crawled hesitantly over and curled up at Harper’s side, laying his head on the battered engineer’s chest. And then they just sat there holding each other, clinging to one another with desperation while they waited for the others to return.

*****

Dylan’s chain snagged again on some snow covered bramble and the man lurched forward. He managed to keep his footing, but the pile of small sticks and branches he’d been carrying flew from his arms and scattered on the ground. He cursed softly and sank onto a nearby rock. He was tired beyond all understanding, and he felt weary and used up and old, so very old. It had taken all his strength to gather and carry that pitiful pile of kindling, something he would have laughed at a year ago. Then again, a year ago he’d been Dylan Hunt, Captain of the _Andromeda Ascendant_ , heavy-gravity-worlder, last of the old High Guard and poster boy for the new – tall, strong, confidant and cocky. Now he was just Dylan, runaway slave - cold, hungry, worn out and used up, and very much more than three-hundred years old.

A shadow stepped away from the trees, stopped before him. Black leather against white snow filled his sight, coat and hair twitching in the freezing wind.

Dylan blinked, but the image remained. Tyr Anasazi.

“I never thought I would see the day the Universe bested Dylan Hunt.” The voice was quiet, strangely void of malice or gloating. 

“I never thought I would see a lot of things I have, Tyr,” Dylan answered after a long, shocked moment, “including you again.”

“Then I guess we’re both surprised.” The large man stepped forward and gathered the pathetic pile of wood, lifting it without effort.

“Tyr how… when…?”

“It’s a long story that can wait,” Tyr answered the unarticulated questions.

“Harper and Twig. They’re –”

“- with Beka. Now come on.” Tyr pulled Dylan to his feet. “You have a ship waiting for you, Captain.”

Dylan started walking out of habit, but he paused to really look at Tyr for the first time. “I still have a ship? You mean it’s not Captain Anasazi now?”

Tyr gave a small, mirthless laugh. “For the present, the current state of affairs still fits my agenda.”

“Ah, but you admit it. You do have an agenda. I always knew it,” Dylan said, the surrealism of rescue out of the blue after months of terror and hope and despair making him babble. 

Tyr laughed, a real laugh this time. Dylan fancied he saw real pleasure at seeing him again in the dark, usually masked eyes. The Nietzschean prodded Dylan gently forward. “Walk, Captain Hunt. Just walk.”


	61. Chapter 60

**Chapter 60**

_I meant what I said, and I said what I meant. An Elephant’s faithful, one hundred percent. But I lost my poor Whos and their whole tiny town. I couldn’t protect them. And I let JoJo down._

_And now, little egg, you’re alone in the universe, too._

_Who would have thought you’d be left up to me, a fool of an elephant up in a tree. Well, this time, I swear I’ll do better than try. I’ll protect you from harm. Yes, I’ll do it or die! So rest now, young egg, and I’ll sing you a lullaby…_

\- Horton the Elephant, _Seussical_

*****

Trance was in medical when she felt it. Sergeant Stergis had been injured in a training exercise and she was treating the fracture in her arm when she felt the strings and waves of the universe slip quietly into place, just like the fragile bone in her hands. With a carefully constructed smile, she sent the young woman on her way. Then she hurried to the _Maru_ and locked herself in her old room. 

Tears came hot and heavy as she gazed around at this place that used to give her comfort. Now it just served to remind her of all that had been lost, including her innocence. 

“Are you happy now?” she shouted suddenly, to no one and everyone. “Is your precious universe shaping up nicely? Greater good, fate of the many, and so on and so forth! Good wins one more round over evil, right?”

Her voice died off, shoulders shaking heavily. “Good wins again, and I lose everyone and everything, including the soul I worked so hard to find,” she whispered brokenly. She couldn’t do it anymore. She couldn’t be this cosmic tool of the universe, forced to choose between the billions of unknown masses and the faces of her friends.

Not bothering to wipe away the tears that wouldn’t stop now that she’d let them come, Trance pulled out a worn purple suitcase. Then she glanced around the room again. _What_ , she wondered, _does a person possibly pack to take with her as she plans to slip quietly between the mortal and immortal worlds into blessed, uncomplicated nothingness?_

*****

Beka got another tremendous shock when Tyr walked back in with Dylan half an hour later and she saw the captain for the first time. Her mouth hung open in horror and surprise.

“Nice to see you too, Beka,” Dylan said wearily, sinking onto the deck as she continued to stare open-mouthed. Still, he managed to give a small, grateful smile that took the sting out of his words. She forced her mouth to close.

“Dylan I…I…”

He waved a chained hand at her, letting her know it was okay, and there was no need to say anything.

“Beka,” Tyr drew her attention as he entered the pitiful shelter for the third time. She blinked, realizing she hadn’t even noticed him leave again. He was setting the many bags and satchels they’d brought with them on the deck of the downed ship. “We’re not out of the proverbial woods yet. There’s much work to be done if they’re to survive the remainder of this journey. I need your assistance and your emotional control. So do they.”

His words focused her, grounded her. Carefully, she slid out from behind Harper. “What do you need me to do?”

*****

Harper leaned back into the bulkhead Tyr had propped him up against and sighed deeply. Already he could feel the effects of the large dose of antibiotics the big man had given him a few minutes earlier. To not be shaking and hazy with fever – it was heaven. Add to that the pleasantly soothing syrup Tyr had helped him swallow that was easing his cough, the shot of calorie boosters, and the steady flow of vitamin and nutrient rich fluid coursing down a jury-rigged IV into his blood stream and Harper was feeling almost human again. He’d even been given a mild pain reliever, but drew the line at accepting the hard stuff. All of this was way too close to the many dreams he’d had over the last few months. He refused to let his head get fuzzy, afraid it would all melt away like the dreams if he did.

That was one of the plusses of having Tyr as a nursemaid. Beka would have argued long and hard, but Tyr merely put the shot away with a noise that might have almost been mild approval.

The big man was being uncommonly gentle, never once commenting on his pathetic state. Harper figured that would come later, but right now he was just deeply grateful for the help. After eleven months of suffering, his pride could shove it in favor of a little caring, no matter who was playing the part of nurse.

 _Eleven months!_ He now knew how long it had been. Eleven months, one week, and four days to be exact. Not only was he now past his twenty-fourth birthday, he was well on his way to reaching his twenty-fifth. He sighed a little, unable to stop it from escaping. Another year of his life ripped away from him, spent as some Niet’s property…

“Harper-” 

Tyr’s voice jerked him out of his thoughts.

“I’m going to clean and bandage –” there was a pause, as though Tyr were looking him over with a critical eye, “– everything. It will most likely be painful.” 

“’K,” Harper agreed, gritting his teeth for what he knew was coming. Soon, he felt hands unwrapping the ragged strips of blanket Dylan had tied around his feet at the beginning of this desperate bid for freedom.

“Where are your boots, boy?” Tyr growled as Harper felt a warm, wet cloth gently sliding over his abused feet. He could practically feel the disapproval in the question, as though Tyr expected to hear he’d lost them through carelessness.

“Probably mucking up the works of Felix’s garbage disposal on his ship,” Harper said with a small shrug. 

The cloth cleaning his feet stopped for a moment and there was silence. When Tyr spoke again his voice was light and quiet, hesitant - the way Harper remembered it sounding when he was almost speechless with disbelief.

“Do you mean to tell me,” he paused, “you were never given replacements for the boots he took? That you have spent this entire time… _barefoot_?”

Harper nodded. Tyr growled and uttered something harsh in a language Harper didn’t understand, but it sounded very much like an oath. After a moment, the soft washing of his feet continued, but it was even longer before Tyr spoke again. “Professor,” his voice was soft but Harper could hear the strained anger that he didn’t bother to hide, “should my path someday cross that of those who tortured you... I will kill them slowly and without mercy.”

Harper sat for a moment, trying to figure out what exactly to say to that, but before he could open his mouth Dylan’s very weary voice floated to them from across the small room. 

“Take a number, Tyr, and get in line.”

*****

“Take a number, Tyr, and get in line.”

Dylan’s soft words pulled Beka’s attention away from the scene playing out in front of her between Tyr and Harper, a scene that was breaking her heart. The former captain walked stiffly from the little back room he had used to wash up in, insisting he could manage at least that much on his own, the ugly chains that hung from him clanking as he moved. She watched the man sink slowly to the deck and took a moment to study him. She wasn’t sure if he looked better or worse after his sponge bath. The dirt was gone, but that just helped the deathly pale skin and dark bruises stand out stronger, not to mention the sharp angles and shadows of his protruding bones. She turned away. She was supposed to play nurse for him just as Tyr was doing for Harper, but she couldn’t face him yet. Couldn’t bear to see the friend she’d come to revere looking like a broken, old man. 

She turned back to watch Tyr and Harper. Like that was any better. The Nietzschean was slowly working his way up the young engineer’s body, cleaning away months worth of dirt and grime and then tenderly treating and wrapping the injuries that he exposed. It made Beka sick to see what emerged, and she wasn’t the only one. She could practically feel the rage rolling off of Tyr as he worked. She looked back at Harper, wondering how her best friend was taking all of this, hoping to catch his eye. 

Suddenly, her breath caught in her throat as though someone had wrapped a hand around her neck and squeezed. Harper wasn’t looking at her – he wasn’t looking at anything. Those clear, blue eyes weren’t full of the haunted horror she expected to find, they were just dead – empty. They drooped and hung lazily, not matching the motion of his head. 

In abject terror, she got to her feet and crossed the room to the bunk her engineer rested on. “Harper?” she asked, feigning normalcy as she nervously ran a hand through her hair. His head swiveled toward her. “You okay, with…um…Tyr here helping you?” she finished lamely, not really thinking about _what_ to say so much as what she had to do. Silently, she raised her hand and waved it slowly in front of her friend’s eyes. He didn’t even blink. Suppressing a sob, her hand came to her mouth as she glanced in horror at Tyr. The Nietzschean simply gave an angry nod of confirmation.

“Yeah, I’m good, Beka,” Harper answered, totally unaware of what was going on before him. “Better than I have been for ages, actually.”

Beka clenched her teeth against the howl of rage that threatened to escape. “Okay, Kiddo,” she finally managed to whisper and then all but fled. Breathing hard and fast, she snatched up the unused first-aid kit and rushed to where Dylan sat, sinking to the deck beside him. Fighting tears, she finally looked up to find him watching her, his eyes haunted and knowing. 

“His eyes…” she whispered, chewing her lip. “He…he can’t…” She took a deep breath. “He’s blind?”

“Yes,” Dylan answered softly, bitterly. He was too tired to cushion the words.

She clenched her hands. “But he’s Harper,” she protested. “Our engineer. _My_ engineer! He can’t be – blind.” She almost choked on the word. 

Dylan just looked at her.

With a sigh, she turned away, busied herself in the medical kit. She found a shot of antibiotics and pulled it out, uncapping it. The captain didn’t protest as she pushed his ragged sleeve up and slid the needle into his emaciated arm. When it was empty, she drew it back out and set it aside, finally looking at Dylan again.

“What did they do to him?” she asked softly, not wanting their conversation to carry to Harper and Tyr, but unable to stand not knowing any longer.

Dylan closed his eyes, his head falling back against the wall he was leaning on. “What didn’t they do to him, Beka.” His voice held a world of anguish, hurt, and guilt. “Are you sure you really want to know?”

“I have to know,” Beka said firmly, taking out another shot, this one of much needed vitamins and proteins. “I’ve waited a year, Dylan. A year of wondering every day what you two were going through, if you were even alive. A year of holding out hope when everyone told me it was insane. I have to know.”

The captain glanced at her, pierced her with one of the most soul-searching and intense gazes she’d ever experienced. It was a look of sorrow, of gratitude, of empathy. But it was also one of defeat.

“I tried, Beka. I did everything I could. And it just wasn't enough. I just had to stand by and watch them... The things I saw…what they did to him…what they did to Twig…” Again that piercing, hopeless look as he glanced from Harper to Twig then back to her. “Twig’s just a baby, Beka. And look what they did to him!”

He broke off, choking on his words. Beka stared at him, shocked by his words and the devastation of the once indomitable captain. 

“It isn't worth it…this fight to restore things to the way they were. Beka, I’m not sure my faith in the universe can ever be restored. I’m not sure I even want to try.” He closed his eyes again, sagging limply into the wall.

“Dylan, I’m sure you did everything you could,” she said quickly, urgently. This new Dylan scared her, almost more than the horribly injured Harper did. Not sure what else to do, she gently injected the second shot. 

He didn’t even notice; he was staring at Tyr and Harper again, watching the bandages creep up the engineer’s body, covering way too much of it – hiding things that could never be forgotten or explained, and maybe never truly fixed. As if the pathetic, white strips could make them better. “I couldn’t stop it, Beka,” he whispered again, brokenly. “Any of it. I watched them break my friend into pieces one day at a time and couldn’t do a thing.”

They made quite a pair, her and Dylan; both knowing they’d failed miserably to protect the ones they loved, both wearing the blame like a heavy cloak around their shoulders. Who knew if time could repair that, heal the wounds of failure? Beka followed Dylan’s gaze back to Harper as well. She saw the injuries, _really_ saw them for the first time, each one individually, representations of a thousand different and unspeakable events. She swallowed hard, knowing that neither would like this but also that she had no choice.

“His feet?” she asked quietly, glancing at the newly bandaged limbs.

“Eleven months with no shoes,” Dylan answered simply, his voice equally soft. He didn’t elaborate. Good, that was probably better. Details right now would make her lose it.

And so they went, watching Tyr bathe and tend to some injury while Dylan uttered a one or two sentence explanation of how it came to exist. He spoke softly, brokenly, taking her through the battered shins, ravaged back, ugly, oozing brand on his chest, destroyed dataport, broken eyes… They didn’t look at each other, neither one using more words than was absolutely necessary. 

Their façade cracked when they got to his hands.

Dylan’s face darkened with sudden and unexpected anger. “They crucified him, Beka. _Crucified_ him!” he whispered in a voice so unlike any she’d ever heard from him.

“I know,” she answered, eyes haunted by memories. Dylan's head had fallen to his chest, but her response shocked him sufficiently that he met her gaze.

“You know?”

“The Great and Powerful Felix sent us pictures. And his bloody clothes.” The anguish she’d felt on that day welled up inside her again; she knew it would never fully go away. “I thought he was dead.”

“He was,” Dylan answered wearily, looking sadly back at Harper.

Beka blanched, whipping around to face him sharply, so not prepared to hear those words despite everything they’d already talked about. 

“But…how…?”

“I didn’t see it; you have one on me there, Beka. I never left our cozy little cell on Felix’s ship, but Harper told me about it later. Felix pounded spikes into his hands and pinned him up on that cross, then when he was almost dead, came back three days later and told him it was all a big joke.” Dylan’s voice was cold now, filled with rage. “The shock of having the nails removed was too much, though, and Harper died. Felix revived him.”

Beka didn’t know what she felt at hearing that. Anger? Shock? Horror? Gratitude?

“How come you kept looking, if you thought we were dead?” Dylan asked after a moment, truly curious.

“Well, I didn’t have proof that _you_ were dead,” she answered with a shrug. “And, after a while, I figured out Harper must still be alive, too.”

“You did?” He looked confused and amazed. “How?”

“No rabbit’s foot,” she said simply. 

“Huh?”

“I knew there was no way Harper would let that go if he could help it. He hasn’t taken it off since the day he boarded the _Maru_ ,” she explained. “It was on him in that picture, but when it didn’t turn up with the clothes we were given and everything else did, I figured…. Well… What would Felix want with a little mudfoot’s good luck sign? So Harper must still have it, and only an alive Harper would care.”

Dylan gazed at her, mouth hanging open. He stayed that way for so long Beka was afraid maybe he’d really lost it. Finally, he shook his head and she was surprised to see tears glistening in his eyes. Slowly, he reached under the neck of his ragged shirt and pulled something out, holding it up for her to see. There, strung on a necklace made of grubby, plastic wiring, hung Harper’s rabbit’s foot.

“He asked me to keep it for him,” Dylan’s voice was far away now. “Said it was special and he didn’t want to leave it behind, but that the Nietzscheans would find it on him if he kept it. So I took it for him.” He sounded amazed. .“Beka,” he turned back to her, voice stronger now, “you have no idea how many times this little good luck charm has saved Harper’s life,” he said solemnly. Almost reverently, he pulled it over his head, running his fingers over it. “Here,” he said after a moment, holding it out to her, “next time you go check on him, which I know you’re aching to do, give it back to him. I don’t think I need to keep it for him anymore.”

Beka took the ragged thing from him, closing her fingers around it tightly, and he turned to look back at Harper. After a moment to clear her eyes, Beka followed his lead. Tyr had finished his doctoring now and the young engineer was swathed in bandages. They wrapped his feet and shins, disappearing up under the decrepit pants, and his whole torso was also covered in them; they even snaked around his shoulders and upper arms. Tyr had gently placed some sort of ball or wadding against the palm and curled fingers of his crushed left hand and then wrapped it all tightly in more clean bandages. Despite the awkward chains around his wrists, the Nietzschean managed to cradle the injured hand in a sling, and then he bound the whole limb against the young man’s chest, immobilizing it.

“He looks like a mummy,” Beka blurted rather louder than she meant to.

“I heard that,” Harper called back in his rough voice, rolling his eyes. “Sensitive ears, remember?”

“Hold still, boy,” Tyr growled, turning Harper’s face sideways again to get a better look at the sores on his head. 

“Touchy,” she heard Harper grumble. It brought a sad smile to her lips, both reminding her of old times and re-emphasizing how different everything was now. It also reminded her that she was shirking her duty.

“All right, Dylan, let’s get you all doctored up as well. Then you and Harper can compare bandages.”

Without protest, Dylan did as he was told. He seemed almost grateful to have someone else be in charge. As she watched him, her mind stuck hopelessly on their conversation, Beka knew they still had a long way to go before they’d all be okay, and she didn’t mean just getting off this rotten planet.

She worked quickly. Dylan had plenty of sores and lash marks, but nothing like the horrible injuries she’d just seen on Harper. The captain’s worst injuries seemed to be the nasty wounds around his wrists, ankles, and waist, caused by the metal chains. It didn’t take her long to finish giving him the meds and bandage up his hurts, although the blasted chains didn’t exactly make it convenient.

“How did you find us?” Dylan broke the silence suddenly as she was tying off the last bandage.

“Long, long story. How did you guys escape?” she threw back at him.

“Long, long story,” he repeated. Despite the tired voice, she saw just a flicker of the man she remembered when he threw her own words back at her and it gave her some semblance of hope.

“Once we have you two safely off this planet we’ll plan a story swap.”

“Three,” Dylan said firmly, pulling his arm back now that Beka was done.

“Huh?” she asked as she packed up the med kit.

“Us three off the planet. You forgot Twig.”

“Oh, yeah,” Beka muttered, looking away and toward the little boy sleeping soundly on the bunk beside Harper, too exhausted to stay awake as he waited for his turn to be fixed up. She wasn’t sure how she felt about him being there. It’s not that she had anything against the kid, other than the fact that he was a – well – kid. Sure, he looked like he’d had it pretty bad and she felt sorry for him. But he was a kid – little and helpless and fragile. He was bound to slow them down and from the looks of it, Harper didn’t have much time to waste. She figured Dylan’s hero complex must have kicked in when he saw the little thing stuck in a slave camp and refused to leave him there. Darn the man and his heroic impulses.

“Beka, what’s wrong?”

Darn his ability to read her mind as well.

“Nothing,” she said evasively. She gathered up what she’d been using to help him and left quickly, avoiding his eyes.

A few minutes later, Beka found herself at the bunk where the little kid was sleeping. She’d tried to stall, but the food was cooking fine on the small fire Tyr had lit earlier, and Tyr himself was still busy with Harper. That left only her to take care of the kid. She wasn’t too happy to have him there slowing them down and using up resources they needed for Harper and Dylan, but she wasn’t cold-hearted enough to clean and fix her friends up and make the boy stay how he was.

Reluctantly, she reached out and gently touched the kid’s shoulder. Instantly, his eyes popped open. He didn’t say anything, just looked around with huge eyes for a few seconds, breathing hard in confusion and fear. Beka felt her heart soften just a little. That look reminded her too much of the Harper who had first come on board her ship.

“Hey, kid,” she said softly, “It’s okay. I’m just gonna clean you up a bit and give you some stuff to make you feel better. Then we get to eat.”

He stared at her for a moment more before he nodded and sat up.

Neither one spoke as she scrubbed what felt like years worth of dirt off him. She frowned as a terribly starved little body was revealed, one dotted all over with fading bruises and welts and scars from a whip. It made her mad. She might not want to be saddled with an annoying kid, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t outraged someone would treat him like this. She could see why Captain Heroic wouldn’t leave him behind.

When he was finally as clean as she could get him without actually dunking him in a tub, she retrieved her first-aid kit and started pulling out various needles and creams.

“No, no, no,” he suddenly said, voice edged with panic. “No, I don’t want those! No please!” He backed away from her until his back hit the bulkhead, then fell to his knees.

She was surprised by the unexpected outburst, but not altogether shocked. Several vivid, never forgotten memories of a six-year-younger Harper flashed through her brain. Sadly, she’d seen this kind of raw fear before.

“Kid!” she said loudly, moving closer and racking her brain for what Harper and Dylan had called him. “Er…Twig! Hey, I’m not gonna hurt you! These are the meds I was talking about. They’ll make you feel better!”

She tried to put on her most friendly smile but it didn’t matter, he just kept backing farther away, shaking his head and saying “no, no!” over and over again. She ran a hand through her hair. This was ridiculous.

“Twig?” Harper had heard the commotion and was suddenly calling out for the boy. He had to call three more times before the kid stopped moving and wailing long enough to hear him. “Twig, what’s going on?” 

Beka glanced at her friend. He looked like he really wanted to slide off the bunk and hobble over there, but Tyr “Florence Nightengale” Anasazi had him pinned down with an iron grip on his arm and a jury-rigged IV in his elbow.

“Harper,” the little boy sniffed softly, his eyes darting toward the engineer, calculating if he could slip past Beka and make it to the young man’s side. Beka moved in front of him, closing off his escape route.

“Beka, what’s wrong with him?” Harper’s voice was scared now.

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m just trying to give him his meds, like the rest of you, and he freaked out on me.”

Harper sighed, nodding his head in understanding. “He’s um…had some bad experiences with needles, Beka.” His words were sad, angry, purposefully vague. “Just talk to him carefully and move really slow and gentle and he’ll be okay. Twig,” he added, calling gently to the kid, “it’s okay. Beka’s my friend and she’s not gonna hurt you. The stuff in the needles is medicine, like the stuff Doc Barty gave you, okay? Let her help you.”

The boy’s eyes darted back and forth between Harper and her for several minutes, his breathing still ragged, but finally he sagged to the deck in exhausted acceptance. Beka slid quietly to his side, wasting no time in getting her shots ready. She was quite sure she wouldn’t get another chance. 

“Beka?” Harper called again from across the room, his voice rather urgent. 

“What, Harper?” she replied, trying to keep the annoyance from showing.

“No stimulants or sedatives, okay? He has a bad heart. Not sure how he’d react.”

 _Great_ , she thought as she recapped the calorie booster she’d just laid out and put it away, _not just a little, freaked out kid to slow us down. A sick, freaked out little kid._ This whole thing just got better and better.

*****

Dylan sat silently, wearily watching his friends. He’d almost called them his crew, but no amount of imagination could make that right anymore. He was so far from being a starship captain it was amusing to even think of it. 

Exhausted, dizzy from hunger and in pain, he simply sat and watched.

He watched Tyr help Harper, soothing hurts he’d wished a million times he could fix.

He watched Beka clean and treat Twig, tucking the boy under warm blankets Dylan had prayed for a thousand times over.

What a failure he’d turned out to be. What a fool. Catapulted suddenly into a time and place that wasn’t his, he’d run gaily through the universe, spouting nonsensical ideals and assuring people he knew what was best for them. He could protect them.

Lies, all of it lies. 

He didn’t know anything. He was…what was the word Tyr had used? An anachronism. A blind, out of date fool. 

He couldn’t protect anyone. Not his ship, not his beloved Commonwealth, not his crew. Especially not his crew. Especially not those two kids over there.

He’d tried so hard and in the end, he’d just let everyone down.

Well, he wasn’t going to try anymore. He was going to do something right. He might not be able to save the universe, but in the last year he’d made vows more important than even the ones he gave to the Commonwealth. He would keep those vows, protect his family, or die trying. 

*****

“You should rest now, boy. You might be feeling better, but you’re still only inches away from death,” Tyr said firmly, wrapping several blankets around the human’s shoulders. The drama on the other side of the room was over now, and he’d treated all of Harper’s ills that he could. “I’ll wake you for the food.”

“No wait, Tyr,” Harper reached out and caught his arm with his free hand. “Your rather blunt bedside manner aside, can you do one more thing?”

Tyr paused. “What, Harper?”

The small human reached up and scrubbed at the short, scruffy hairs covering his cheeks. “This beard is driving me nuts. Don’t you have any way to get rid of it?”

The Nietzschean regarded him for several long moments, then to his annoyance found himself sitting back down. He pulled something from his boot and turned it over in his hands, watching it glint appreciatively.

“Do you trust me?” he finally asked the boy.

“Um, yeah. You’re here, aren’t you?”

“Good. Then hold still.”

Harper froze, letting him cover his cheeks with a soft foam. Tyr positioned the boy’s head to one side and started carefully.

“Wait a minute,” Harper whispered. “Please don’t tell me you’re using your dagger for this.”

“All right, I won’t tell you.”

The small human gulped. “Me and my big mouth…” he muttered. Tyr held back a small laugh. Even in the midst of staggering readjustments and loses, some things didn’t change.


	62. Chapter 61

**Chapter 61**

_“You can just about always stand more’n you think you can.”_

\- Texas Bix Bender

*****

Tyr sat quietly in the frozen darkness. His charges were sleeping, and he had taken up a position just outside of their pitiful shelter to keep watch. To the outward observer he was the picture of laziness, but his senses were all focused and alert. There were no threats, however, not right now. The world around him was starting to lighten as the first hints of morning appeared. It was the best time of day, the time when people left their secrets exposed and vulnerable and for the taking – when things were easy to find out, if you knew how to look. Unfortunately, the universe seemed to think that was a collective attribute, and today he found his own thoughts mulling around closer to the surface than he would have liked. He had to admit several things had caught him by surprise, something he wasn’t proud of. He had not planned on finding the engineer this damaged – crippled, deathly ill, hobbled and blind. Any of those problems alone would have complicated things, but blindness would be a serious issue to deal with, both on the rest of their journey and in whatever happened after. The boy was a survivor, though, he would give him that much. He would wait to pass judgment on his condition after more options had been explored.

It was the bond between the young engineer and child that was most startling and unexpected. Despite the fact that Harper was little more than a child himself, somehow he had taken upon himself the roll of father for the abandoned boy. Perhaps it was foolhardy and rash, but it was done, and Tyr found he respected it. It was not a bond that would be easily unmade. One look at the pair of them, with Dylan hovering in the background like some pathetically protective guard dog or maybe grandfather, and he’d resigned himself to the fact that the child was coming along.

It was foolish and maybe slightly suicidal, but all Nietzscheans knew that protecting one’s young was the only endeavor worth acts of foolish, suicidal faith.

Tyr felt Beka’s presence behind him long before she approached. He ignored her, knowing she would speak when she couldn’t hold the tumbling thoughts and emotions inside any longer. 

“Tyr,” she finally said, coming to where he reclined against a tree. “Why aren’t you in there working on getting the chains and that blasted collar off?”

He rolled his eyes in her direction. “And how exactly would you suggest I do that?”

“I don’t know! Pick the locks, shoot them off…”

He looked at her for a moment, then glanced lazily away, unfazed by her silly display of emotion. “For one, there are no locks I can see. Secondly…shoot them off? How do you propose I do that without injuring them further?”

“I don’t know, Tyr,” Beka hissed again in frustration. “You’re the ex-merc. Think of something! Just get them out of them!”

“Captain Valentine, stop letting your emotions control you and use your head!” Tyr almost snapped. “I will not cause further harm just to remove something you don’t like looking at. They have lived with them for this long; they will last a few more days. They may even be of use when we reenter the city.”

Beka slid down the tree trunk to sit beside him, defeated. “I just can’t stand seeing them like that, in chains, looking like…” She trailed off, unable to say it.

“Like slaves,” Tyr said, ignoring her flinch. He did not condone slavery, but it was pointless to pretend it didn’t exist. His own back bore the scars that testified to the disgusting practice. It was an odd bond he shared with the boy, that instinctive understanding of the universe’s cruelty and ugliness. An understanding that never let you forget or hide, was always exacting payment and refusing to be swept under the proverbial rug. Beka should have learned that by now, and he was not about to let her slink away from it. “They wear the vestiges of the last year of their lives, Beka. Neither you nor I can change that or make it ‘go away’ simply by removing their bonds. And it doesn’t really matter anyway. The android will make quick work of them once we’re off this retched planet. Stop worrying about things you cannot change,” he finished coldly.

They fell into silence again. Tyr said nothing. Something was on the woman’s mind, and he knew she’d get around to blurting it out eventually. She always did.

“What about Twig?” she said, right on cue. She was playing with those blasted rings, a sure sign she was agitated or nervous. 

He didn’t bother to answer, just leveled an annoyed look at her and waited.

“He’s gonna slow us down,” she finally blurted. “Use up resources and food. Get in the way when we get back to the city…”

“Shall I _kill_ him?” he asked, keeping his voice neutral. He was baiting the woman, and enjoying it, but she didn’t need to know that.

“What? No! Of course not, Tyr!” She threw him a disgusted look. “He’s just a kid! And one who’s obviously been through hell! I’m not that calloused! I just thought, maybe, we could find someone to take him in… to leave him with. You know…”

“Dylan and the Little Professor would not agree.”

“Yeah, well, they aren’t exactly in any shape to know what’s best right now, are they?”

Tyr looked out over the snowy landscape before speaking, remembering his own thoughts of moments earlier.

“You’ve never taken issue with boarding strays before. You took in Harper, and the Purple One.”

“Yeah, well, they could take care of themselves.”

Tyr raised a disbelieving eyebrow in response.

Beka rolled her eyes. “Okay, you’re right. I just don’t want to waste any more time. We’ve lost so much already and Harper… He’s so… ” She broke off, not willing to finish that sentence, looking completely stricken and guilt-ridden as she turned away from him. 

“Rebekah,” Tyr said with sudden gentleness. He placed a finger under her chin and turned her face back toward his own before locking his dark eyes onto her bright ones. “Have you not watched them? Harper and the child? Do you not see the bond they’ve created?” For some strange reason he felt the need to explain this to her, an odd reversal of roles.

“Yeah,” she muttered quietly, looking away. “I see it.”

“Then I will tell you this bluntly because it appears you must hear it: without that child your Harper would be _dead._ Without the knowledge that someone needed him, someone else was depending upon him to survive, he would have succumbed months ago. So, what do you think would happen if you suggested the child stay behind? Do you really want to do that?”

“No, of course not!” Beka cried, stricken. “I’m just…” She trailed off again, dropping her head and bringing her hands up to run through her hair. “Everything’s so different, Tyr,” she finally said. “I thought I was prepared, knew what to expect when we found them, but this… I never imagined this. And now there’s an extra person to keep safe as well…?” She sighed deeply. “I don’t know if I can do this anymore.” A shudder ran through her body. 

Tyr frowned. “You can and will do this, Captain Valentine, because you don’t have any choice!” he growled, suddenly angered by her human weakness and willingness to give up. “You carry guilt for not finding them sooner, for leaving them here? Then stop wallowing and act! This universe is ugly! It is brutal and unforgiving and those too weak to face it are swept aside! I know this first hand, Beka. I did not drag myself up inch by inch from the black pit of slavery to let the universe defeat me! Dylan, Harper, and the child know this, and they have chosen to spit in its face and move forward! Is a Valentine any less? I've seen you face the darkness inside yourself and rise above it. I’ve seen you take the impossible cards fate has dealt you and laugh as you laid down a winning hand! Will you now, when proven right in your farfetched belief and foolish optimism, fall to your knees and concede the fight? Is that the legacy you wish to leave for the infamous Valentine name?”

He paused, letting his words crash over her, then lowered his voice to a whisper.

“Is that the idol the Little Professor has held out hope for? The ‘big sister’ he has suffered innumerable humiliations for over a year to see again?”

A small sob escaped the woman and she let her head sink back to the trunk of the tree, tears carving tracks down her cheeks. She swiped furiously at them, obviously angered by her inability to hold them back. 

“And now he can’t see anything, can he?” she spat, her voice both livid and vulnerable at the same time.

“No, he can’t,” Tyr said simply. “So that’s the end then? You don’t want him now, now that he no longer sees?”

“NO!” she cried, jerking her head up and facing him, eyes wide with incensed indignation. “How dare you even say that?”

Tyr shrugged. “It’s what you imply by sitting here, wringing your hands and spewing sickening platitudes.”

She opened her mouth to shout something back then snapped it shut again, glaring at him. _So, he’d made her angry. Good._

“I’m going back inside,” she said bitingly. 

He simply nodded, which caused the blonde to huff and march off. As soon as she was out of sight, Tyr leaned his head back against the rough bark of the tree and laughed.

_If you are reading this, I'd love to know what you think. Thanks!_


	63. Chapter 62

**Chapter 62**

_So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their ending._

\- J.R.R. Tolkien

*****

“Of course we would arrive on some Nietzschean national holiday,” said Beka, staring with disbelief at the bustling port city. Their small, ragged group was hiding behind a broken-down warehouse on the outskirts of town, trying to figure a way across to the safety of the _Miss Kitty_ where Rommie and Patch waited. Usually, the town was busy, but today it was practically overflowing.

“What is it that Harper used to say? ‘The Universe hates us, deal with it’?” replied Dylan with a weary smile.

“Hey!” cried Harper from where he lay resting by the horses. “No quoting without permission. I should get royalties for that!”

Beka couldn’t help but smile at his words, so grateful to see some of the Harper she remembered returning to the wraith-like human figure that her friend had become.

“Add it to my tab,” replied Dylan over his shoulder. 

A small stab of jealously shot through Beka as she watched the easy camaraderie and friendship that this ordeal had obviously developed between the captain and her engineer, but she quickly pushed it down. She was immensely grateful Dylan had been with Harper during this trip to hell, and she didn’t want to begrudge them the one good thing that had come out of it.

“It’s not a holiday,” said Tyr. “It’s a mobilization. They are not doubt responding to the explosion in the mine Captain Hunt and the Little Man witnessed.”

“Lovely,” replied Beka sarcastically. “Someone wanna tell me exactly who in the great universal scheme of things is so against us getting these guys home?”

“I could give you a list,” Harper threw out again before turning away to cough. The medicines they’d been giving him for the last week were working, but he was still very ill and in desperate need of a real doctor.

“Let the trees live instead, boy,” Tyr said, shaking his head. “But this may be to our advantage.”

“Easier to blend in,” added Dylan, and he and Tyr shared a look. Obviously, the two were thinking of the same thing.

“Okay, care to share the brilliant plan with the rest of the class?”

*****

Brilliant plan? Yeah right…

Beka walked swiftly through the crowds, cursing under her breath.

This plan stunk.

Not because it was a particularly bad plan, but because she had to leave Harper and the others and go ahead. She’d just got him back; she wasn’t happy to let him out of her sight and leave him to somehow get through the most dangerous part of this rescue with only Tyr there. She was mad and she didn’t care who knew it.

“You, human!”

Beka closed her eyes briefly before she turned around.

“What?” she snapped at the large, overly-attractive Niet who was glaring at her. Casually, she slipped her hand to her wrist, pretending to scratch it, and flipped the switch on her communicator. She had no idea if she was close enough to the _Miss Kitty_ for Rommie to pick up her signal in this lame, technology-killing town, but she had a feeling she might need back-up in a minute.

“You’re in a restricted area! What are you doing?”

“Look, buddy, I’m not in the mood. My ship’s been stuck in port for weeks while I’ve waited for my incompetent engineer to fix the AG unit, and I just got back from the only shop in this dump and they don’t have the part I need until next week. So pardon me if I’m in your precious restricted zone but I was just leaving."

The Niet eyed her suspiciously, almost as though he recognized her from somewhere, and Beka silently cursed Dylan and his high-publicity campaign for the new Commonwealth. She tried to erase all emotions except exasperated annoyance from her face as she turned and kept walking.

“I’ll accompany you to your ship,” the Uber said with a leer. “Perhaps I can render assistance,” he added, feigning helpfulness.

“Whatever,” Beka mumbled. Her mind was straining, trying to come up with a plan for what she would do when they arrived at the _Miss Kitt_ y and the Nietzschean realized that one, she wasn’t the captain, two, she didn’t have an engineer, and three, the AG generator was fine. Or worse, what if he was still around or caused a scene as Tyr was trying to bring the others? She couldn’t stop her heart from racing at these thoughts and she knew the Niet could hear it. Hopefully, he attributed it to the natural fear all Ubers, especially the ones on this messed up planet, expected humans to exhibit in their presence. 

They turned a corner and the docks opened up before them, the _Miss Kitty_ sitting patiently the fifth ship from the right, and still the meddlesome Nietzschean strode haughtily beside her. Beka looked around, weighing her options of just pulling out her gun and shooting him, but while there weren’t that many people around, she knew she couldn’t risk it. They’d have to blow their way out of port in a hasty exit right away, and Harper and the others would be stranded, probably forever. She’d die before she did that to them again.

No miraculous plan had struck her as she approached the airlock of the waiting ship, and she was starting to panic inside. Maybe they could kidnap the Uber? Force him into the ship and stuff him somewhere to keep him quiet? Dump him on some backwater drift in a few weeks?

Yeah right, who was she kidding? They’d never get out of orbit with a Drago-Kazov as a prisoner. And with Tyr on board, the Uber wouldn’t live long enough to be dumped anywhere.

She was only four feet from the ship when the airlock opened and a figure stepped out, leaning lazily against the bulkhead. Beka had to do a double-take before she recognized her. It was Rommie, but like she’d never seen her before. The android was now sporting a mess of blonde hair tied up on top of her head in a knot with a dirty rag and what looked suspiciously like a screwdriver. She was grimy and greasy and barefoot.

“Hey, Cap’n,” Rommie said thickly through a mouthful of something she was chewing on. She hitched up the strap of a filthy pair of coveralls on her shoulder and wiped a hand across her forehead, spreading more grease. “Ya git that part, huh?”

“Erm, no, erm…Rommie,” Beka sputtered, trying extremely hard not to laugh out loud and ruin this. Rommie had obviously heard the communication and come up with a plan. Dylan and Harper’s live might very well depend on her ability to sell this. 

“Blasted machine shop won’t have it for another week. They had one three days ago if I’d known then we needed it,” she groused, glaring at Rommie to help the charade. The hovering Nietzschean was looking less suspicious and increasingly bored, apparently buying their story, but he was still _there_ and Beka needed him gone.

Suddenly, as if she’d willed it to happen, a shout came from the far side of the docks, quickly followed by a din of commotion. Beka, Rommie, and the Uber jerked around in time to see a supply wagon on its side and a runaway team of horses speeding off down a side street, several slaves and their masters alike running after them. Their Niet babysitter rushed to help and Beka seized the opportunity. She jumped inside the airlock, dragging Rommie behind her, and sealed it.

Leaning against the door, she breathed a sigh of relief before eyeing Rommie again.

“After this, there’s no way you ever get to criticize my wardrobe again,” she said with a snort.

Rommie marched to the recycler and spit out whatever she’d been chewing on in disgust, then pulled the cloth and tool from her hair, shaking it to return it to its normal color and length.

“Hey, I just saved your butt,” said the android smugly. “And I remind you I am a warship, so just shut it.”

Beka laughed. “Well I’m still raiding the security feed for captures. I know several people who’d want one.”

The mood instantly sobered.

“Are they coming?” Rommie asked, her beautiful face showing an incredible amount of worry for a machine.

“They’d better be,” said Beka fervently. “We had to split up. Tyr’s bringing them”

“How are they?” the avatar asked, all business again.

Beka just shook her head, suddenly fighting tears as she looked away, unable to answer that question.

*****

“Step up slightly in two paces.”

Concentrating hard, Harper nodded to show Dylan he’d heard. His feet found the small rise and he managed to navigate it without tripping. Carefully, he continued placing one mangled, chained foot in front of the other, following where he was being led and trying not to freak out.

Hope was a completely terrifying thing! When he’d stood before Felix in his torture chamber he’d been afraid, but that was the fear of one resigned to his fate not of the unknown. When they’d pounded metal through his hands and strung him up to die, he’d been petrified with fear, but it was a weary terror of agony before the inevitable and things left undone. When his sight had been ripped away from him, or he’d been dragged off and dumped in the slave camp, he’d been very frightened, but again it was a doomed man’s fear. But hope? The feeling that there might be more than pain and horror waiting for him in the future if he could just live through the next few minutes, if this plan could work out? It took all his willpower to hold it together in the face of such crippling emotion.

This was exactly why he’d had to bury his hope so deep under acceptance in order to survive as a slave; he would have died if he didn’t.

“Turn right in five paces,” Dylan whispered again.

The engineer nodded again, trying to smother the coughs that wanted to burst out, knowing they’d draw unwanted attention to their group.

Harper had been blind for nearly a year now, but he’d never felt his loss so keenly as now. On the ship, on the forced march, even in the camp, there’d been very few places he could actually go and all the sounds around him, while terrible, had been predictable. But here? He was surrounded by voices and noise, shouts and laughter. Animals snorted and stomped, machines whirred to life, and all of it crashed in confusion on Harper’s ears, leaving him disoriented and terrified by the cacophony.

He wanted to hide, more than he’d ever wanted to in his life. Unfortunately, hiding wasn’t part of Dylan and Tyr’s brilliant plan. No, that plan was the one where Tyr was currently playing the part of Uber Master, riding his horse proudly right through the crowded center of town, leading his three chained slaves, played so well and with lots of realism by Harper, Dylan, and Twig.

Harper felt the rope attached to his wrist manacles tug him to the right slightly and followed it without protest. His crushed hand throbbed painfully, and he missed Tyr’s makeshift splint and sling that had protected it for the last few days. Most Nietzschean’s didn’t carefully bandage their ailing slaves, though, so they’d had to go for a bit. Harper tried to remind himself that even better help and relief was waiting for him if they could just pull this ruse off.

On they went through crowded streets that Harper couldn’t see. He could feel Twig’s shaking body pressed up against his and wished he could wrap an arm around the boy. This was absolutely terrifying for the kid, moving through these streets full of Nietzscheans, and only his complete trust in Harper and Dylan kept him walking. Harper was almost glad he couldn’t see right now; he knew he couldn’t have handled seeing Twig’s small wrists tied together in front of him, a rope leading from them to Tyr’s saddle. It was the only part of this insane plan Dylan had vehemently objected to, until Tyr had coldly forced him to see logic.

The engineer had always hated Dylan’s “hide in plain sight” plans. They went against all of his Earth instincts. And this one sucked more than most.

Too bad it was also the only plan they had.

The blanket he was wearing as a poncho to replace his missing shirt slid to one side and Harper hurried to right it with trembling hands, praying the heavy hunk of metal around his neck was still hidden. If the wrong eyes saw it he might as well have a glaring neon sign above his head flashing “escape, escape!”

Finally, they turned a corner and most of the noise stayed behind them. Harper breathed a sigh of extreme relief. His nerves and sanity were in shreds and the strength he’d managed to recover since receiving daily first-aid from Beka and Tyr was fading fast. This was the most walking he’d done in several days and he was reminded of exactly how _not_ healthy he was. He was ready to collapse someplace small and quiet and check out of the world for a while.

“I can see the docks,” whispered Dylan after a moment, almost in awe. Harper could hear the desperate hope in his friend’s voice as well. The captain longed for an end to all of this as much as he did, and Harper felt that if this plan failed, if they didn’t escape, it would probably break Dylan.

“What are you doing?” a harsh voice suddenly demanded from in front of them. Harper knew instinctively that it was an Uber. Tyr’s horse stopped, and Harper felt Twig hide behind his shoulder.

“I’m returning with my purchases to my ship,” Tyr answered coolly, his voice every bit the haughty alpha.

“There was no slave auction today,” the other Niet said stonily. There was silence for a moment, as though the intruder was studying Tyr closely, and Harper found himself holding his breath. “Where are your bone blades?”

“An unfortunate accident in my youth,” replied Tyr, menace in his tone. 

There was another moment of scrutiny then…

“You’re not Drago-Kazov!” Harper heard along with the unmistakable sound of a weapon charging. “You’re Tyr Anasazi, the thief who –”

He was cut off mid-sentence by a gauss gun discharge, and Harper heard the now familiar sound of a body hitting the ground.

Guess their charade had just ended.

“His genes were unsound anyway,” Tyr growled. “Now we must hurry!” The engineer forced himself into a jog, blindly trusting the others to keep him safe as he concentrated on trying not to pass out, his lungs forcefully reminding him that they were not well at the moment! There was no sound of pursuit yet, but Tyr’s act wouldn’t go unnoticed for long. They needed to be out of sight before someone found the body and put two and two together.

“Beka, we will need a hasty exit!” Tyr growled into a comm. unit.

Several minutes later, Tyr jerked them all to a halt, jumping from the horse. He quickly sliced through the ropes that attached them to the saddle. Harper immediately bent over, coughing harshly and trying to force his abused lungs to draw in some life-giving oxygen. Vaguely, he heard Tyr gathering up their saddle bags and supplies and then a slap which sent the horse off at a gallop.

“Are you all right, Harper?” Dylan asked, appearing at his side.

Harper nodded, unable to speak quite yet. 

“Come on, then,” the captain said, his voice telling Harper he saw through his lie but couldn’t do anything about it. “We still need to hurry,” he added, taking him by the arm. He guided him forward and they ducked between several ships, rushing along them. Harper could feel the metal of their hulls brushing against his back and shoulders as they ran.

He was pulled around a corner and without warning Dylan picked him bodily up and shoved him inside of a doorway. He stumbled and reached out through the dark to grab something solid. His hands found a metal grate and he held it tightly, gasping for breath like a fish on land as he heard the hiss of an airlock closing.

“Go!” shouted Tyr and the ship lurched around him. Harper closed his eyes and curled his good fingers tighter through the grate to stay upright, begging the universe to for once cut them some slack. _They were so close_! his mind cried as he felt the tell-tale signs of a rough and hasty takeoff.

Suddenly, his fingers were gently pried from the grate and he was enveloped in a surprisingly soft bear-hug. 

“Harper,” a voice breathed in his ear.

 _Rommie_. The engineer melted into her embrace, feeling safe for the first time since he’d set foot on Sommer’s Drift.

*****

The moment they were in motion, Tyr headed for the bridge. Dylan hesitated. Harper wasn’t looking good after their impromptu run and Twig was obviously terrified, but seeing the boys were in Rommie’s expert care, he gave into the long-buried pull he felt to be in the action and followed.

The _Miss Kitty_ was a freighter not unlike the _Maru_. The layout was different but it wasn’t big enough to get lost in. Beka was piloting when he came onto the bridge, a large bearded man with an eye patch standing at axillary controls.

“Welcome to my ship, Captain Hunt,” said Patch to Dylan with a smile as Tyr moved around him to take up weapons control.

“Thank you, for everything,” Dylan told the man fervently in return. Then he just stood there, watching Beka expertly navigate the ship through the atmosphere. He felt so odd, out of place, useless, standing there in chains. The others moved and worked around him with complete competence. He’d disappeared from the world for just shy of a year, but that world hadn’t stopped in his absence. The real question now was if it even needed him back. Was there a place for a Captain Hunt in the universe at all anymore? Or had he really finally became that anachronism? And after everything he’d been through this year, all the ways he’d changed, could he just step back into that life as though nothing had happened?

“They’ve got their orbit locked down,” said Beka suddenly, frowning as she flipped a few switches. “They’re personally checking the idents and registration of every ship entering and leaving, as well as their cargo.

“Everything’s legit about this trip, right?” Dylan couldn’t help asking, a sliver of fear gripping his heart like a fist. He’d never get to know the answers to any of those questions he’d just been mulling over if they never got out of orbit.

“Aside from the three of you, yeah,” answered Patch. “Don’t worry. We might have to sit in line for an hour or two, but we’ll get through all right.” He smiled warmly, an expression rather at odds with his imposing appearance. Dylan decided he liked this man.

“Just make sure and stay out of sight if I have to turn on the view screen,” Beka said, giving him a small smile.

“Probably wise,” he replied with his own smile. He hadn’t realized how much he missed this – this easy back and forth rapport between friends. Maybe he could find a way to slip back into his life after all.

*****

After several long minutes, Rommie pulled away from her engineer. Tyr and Dylan had already hurried by to the bridge and they were alone. The moment they’d rushed into the ship, she’d scanned and diagnosed her captain and her engineer, and the list of evil that had been done to them had enraged her. 

Some people in the universe were going to pay in a very big way for this; that was a warship’s promise.

But now was not the time for that.

Harper tried to stop another painful bout of coughs from erupting and Rommie hurried into action. Her engineer needed her.

“Come with me,” she said to Harper, leading him carefully down a corridor to another room, hating with every fiber that he’d put into her the sight and sound of chains clanking as he moved. A small hand slipped into the engineer’s least damaged one as they went, the little slave clinging to her friend like a life-preserver. 

“Who’s this?” she asked kindly, giving the boy a friendly smile. She might not have the need to be around them often, but she really did like children. Warships didn’t have to be _all_ battles and firepower. Besides, if the way Harper and the kid were holding on to each other was any indication, this one was going to be around for a while. At least, she hoped he was. She frowned to herself as she listened to the boy’s heartbeat – harsh and erratic – and noticed that the hand not clutching Harper’s was pressed to his chest as if he was in pain but trying not to show it.

“This is Twig. He’s my buddy and helper,” Harper answered, his rough voice laced with affection. “Twig, this is Rommie. She’s that butt-kicking and beautiful warship I told you about.”

“Nice to meet you, Twig,” she said, smiling again to try and ease some of the incredible fear she could read like a book on his face.

They entered the tiny room that passed as medical on Patch’s ship. “Sit here, Harper,” she urged, guiding the young man to a padded bench. Twig refused to let go of his hand so Rommie pushed a chair over for him to climb up on as well instead of sending him to the second bench across the room.

As she studied her charges, she was at a loss. There were so many things wrong that she almost didn’t know where to start, what to fix first, especially since most of the hurts were far beyond anything she could do on this ship. She might have a gigantic brain, but she wasn’t a doctor, not for the kind of things Harper needed. 

In the end, she settled for starting with the wrong that she was most able to right. Delicate fingers that hid the strength of a warship wrapped around one of the metal cuffs on Harper’s wrists and pulled, prying it apart. Gently, she slipped his arm free, anger flashing again at the sight of the ruined skin beneath it.

“You know there’s tools for this on _Andromeda_ ,” said Harper quietly as she moved on to his other wrist.

“Not waiting that long,” she muttered cryptically, not really trusting her powers of speech at the moment.

Swiftly, she removed the rest of the boy’s chains, including the ring around his waist. His sigh of relief and joy when she pulled the last one off was heart-breaking. _Nineteen pounds_ , her mind calculated in a nanosecond. Nineteen pounds of metal her young friend had been forced to wear for almost a year, rubbing and bruising. 

She tossed them aside with disgust then turned her attention to the hideous collar around Harper’s neck. “I can’t find the seal,” she said, rotating is slowly.

“Probably doesn’t have one. The guards closed it with the same devise they used to control the slave tags…”

Harper suddenly trailed off, his face paling even more than it already was.

“Rommie, we’ve gotta stop!” he cried, releasing Twig’s hand and pushing off the bench to his feet, movement bringing the coughing back. “Tell Beka to stop! I’ve gotta get to the bridge!” he said around gasps for air.

“No way, Harper. You’re not going anywhere!” she said firmly, forcing him back onto the bench. “I’ve got five dozen hypos and medical treatments waiting with your name on them before you even think of moving, and then it’s only to a bed where you stay until we’re back with the ship.”

“No, you don’t understand,” he begged, desperation in his voice as he pushed weakly against Rommie’s hands. “We gotta stop! I gotta remove the slave tags before we leave orbit! If I don’t, they’ll activate and we’ll have a big, fat target on our aft, not to mention the three of us will be dead!”

*****  
Thanks for reading! Would love to know what you think!


	64. Chapter 63

**Chapter 63**

_Roads go ever, ever on  
Under cloud and under star,  
Yet feet that wandering have gone  
Turn at last to home afar.  
Eyes that fire and sword have seen  
And horror in the halls of stone  
Look at last on meadows green  
And trees and hills they long have known._

\- J.R.R. Tolkien

*****

“So you’re saying when we go through the Niets’ orbital checkpoint we’re gonna light up their alarms like a Christmas tree? And if we break through the grid and run for it, those things will kill you?” groused Beka, pacing slightly

“Pretty much,” replied Harper tiredly from where he sat propped up on the medical bench, Rommie standing guard. “If you’d let me up to –”

“NO!” four voices chorused quickly. Harper snapped his mouth shut with a frown, his blind eyes glaring in the direction of the group of people crammed into the medical room around him. He tried to cross his arms for good measure, but quickly remembered that was useless. His crushed hand was strapped tightly to his chest to keep it immobile until they got back to the _Andromeda_ and Trance’s medical care, and his better hand was rigged up to an IV. He sighed in frustration.

An impromptu meeting was in session, convening in the tiny medical room since so many of the group actually should have been confined there anyway. The topic was how to remove the slave tags, and the general mood was grumpy bordering on panic. The _Miss Kitty_ was quickly approaching her turn through the orbital checkpoint, which was the problem. They were running out of time. To cut out of line and duck back to buy more would arouse suspicion they didn’t need to deal with.

“How did you remove the tag the first time around?” Dylan asked.

“We didn’t!” Harper and Beka answered together.

“I dragged him to Sinti and let them deal with it,” Beka finished.

“Well, that’s certainly not one of our options,” Tyr growled helpfully. Harper could just imagine him standing there, holding up the wall and glaring.

Tuning his friends’ voices out, Harper closed his useless eyes and retreated into his head, pondering the problem. If they wouldn’t let him out of bed to find a solution, he’d have to use the only thing he had left – his brain. Carefully, and feeling woefully out of practice and…he had to face it – disabled – he dug back through his nightmares to that day on Felix’s ship when the earring had been put on. It was hard; he’d been in so much agony he’d hardly paid attention to an event so small. Still, maybe he could remember something. Or, maybe he’d get lucky and it could just strike him like lighten –”

_That was it!_

“Electricity!” he suddenly blurted, butting into the conversation that had carried on around him and probably drawing more than a few odd looks, especially from Tyr.

“What?” questioned Dylan, sounding exhausted and worried he’d finally gone off his rocker.

“Electricity! We need to shock them off! They have to be running on some kind of hidden electrical current. If we hit them with a strong enough pulse, we’ll disrupt it long enough someone with really fast reflexes could pull them off before they could recharge. And I just happen to know someone with super-fast reflexes,” he finished, gesturing vaguely in Rommie’s direction.

“No, no,” Rommie was saying before he’d even finished speaking. “The voltage we’d have to use is way too high! It could kill you! Especially you and Twig!”

“And I’ll take that chance!” Harper cried, losing patience. “Don’t you get it? If we can’t get them off, then when we hit that checkpoint they’re gonna know we’re here. If they don’t just blast us out of the sky and have done with it, they’ll board and send us right back! To starvation, and torture, and death! I don’t wanna go back to that, ever! I’d rather die here if I had the choice!” He turned in the direction he knew Dylan was standing. “Dylan, help me out here!” he pleaded to his friend as his words dissolved into hacking coughs.

Beside him, he felt Twig’s small hand slip into his good one. There was silence for a while, and then the captain spoke.

“He’s right,” he said quietly. “We’re out of options and I agree. I’d rather die here than ever in a million years go back to where we were.” His words were strangely vulnerable, and to Harper so intensely human. It gave Harper comfort, knowing he wasn’t alone in how he felt.

The silence that followed was heavy and emotional. Finally, Beka sighed.

“Okay,” she said with resignation. “Tell us what we need to do, Harper.”

*****

She was just watering her plants for one last time before leaving when he appeared behind her.

“Going somewhere,” he asked, sitting on her hammock and swinging his legs.

“Flux!” Trance cried in shock, glaring at him. “Have you been spying on me?” she demanded.

Flux shrugged. “I always keep an eye on my favorite sister,” he said without guilt.

“Did _they_ send you?” she asked angrily.

“If they were going to contact you it wouldn’t be me they’d send.”

Trance didn’t answer.

“So, you’re leaving, then?” Flux continued.

“Why stay? Nothing I did mattered. They still bent the universe the way they wanted, at the cost of everyone I cared about.”

“That’s why they want you back. You care too much about the little, unimportant things. You meddle. If you leave, you’re doing exactly what they want.”

“But they’re not little and unimportant!” Trance burst out, anger flaring. “They’re people! We play with them like toys, in the name of the ‘greater good’ and ‘perfect possible future!’ And I can’t do it anymore because…because I care for them.”

“Which is why you should stay.”

Trance blinked. That was not the response she’d expected. “Who’s side are you on?” she finally asked, echoing their last conversation.

“Who says I’m on a side? Frankly, I’m bored. With you here, rebelling, I always have entertainment.”

Trance turned away, angered by his honesty. “So, you’re just like them.”

“So are you,” he replied quickly. “You bend the universe to your will, just like they do. Your, shall we say ‘cosmic view-point,’ is just a little different is all.”

Trance hated his words, because they were true. She felt it every day. The true nature of her being – cold, uncaring, creator of mischief because it was fun – warring with the soul she’d tried to find. “Well, my perfect possible future lost, so it doesn’t matter.”

“Did it?” Flux asked, standing up and facing her. “Your little human is still alive. That wasn’t part of the master plan as I remember it. He was disposable.”

Trance’s temper flared at the ugly word. “He’s changed forever now! There was no need for him to go through all that!”

“Change. Progress. Life. That’s what the universe does. You know that. You let some things grow and you prune others. At least he’s alive. You did that. Changed the plan that much. And how do you know that these changes might not be for the good?”

“You really think I should stay?” Trance asked, hesitating.

“Stay, leave, take a trip to the beach… Do whatever you want. But, I’m going to have to find new entertainment if you _do_ leave, and that’s so tedious.”

Trance laughed, rolling her eyes at Flux.

“Trance,” he said, suddenly serious. “I’ve always admired you. I think, better than all our brothers and sisters, you understand our place. We are the keepers of the universe, the bringers of light and life, builders and destroyers. And yet, as a whole, we are cold and uncaring. You alone remember that when you give light you should also give warmth. Stay here, with your favorite toys, and bend the universe to your future. I’m rather convinced it’s still the perfect one. Don’t change too much, little sis. Growing up’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

Gently, he patted her on the head, as if she were a small child, and then in a glimmer of light, he was gone, leaving Trance stunned.

“Trance?” Andromeda’ voice suddenly broke in over the Maru’s comm. system. 

“Yes?” Trance answered out of reflex, her mind still reeling.

“I’ve just received word from Beka. The _Miss Kitty_ has left Rellum’s orbit. They will be at the rendezvous point in a little under two hours.”

Mind now made up, Trance shoved her suitcase into a corner. “I’m on my way,” she said firmly, finally knowing where she belonged, something she’d really known all along.

*****

Dylan wouldn’t have noticed him if he hadn’t heard him, a tiny hiccupping sound coming from the level of his knees as he walked through the galley of Patch’s ship. Ignoring exhausted muscles, he crouched down and looked under the table.

“Twig?” he cried, finding himself face to face with the child who was hiding under the cupboards. The boy had his knees pulled up tightly to his chest and was rocking, sobbing so hard he couldn’t catch his breath and made barely any noise. “What’s the matter, buddy?” Dylan asked in alarm, sitting on the deck beside him. Twig immediately melted into him, burying his face in the captain’s shirt.

Unsure what to do, Dylan wrapped an arm around the boy and let him cry, hoping he’d calm down enough for words.

Twig should have been in the medical room with Harper! He couldn’t have been recovered from the shock yet. The removal of the slave tags had been dangerous and painful, but a success, thanks to Rommie’s quick reflexes. An added bonus had been Harper’s collar popping open the moment his earring deactivated. Even half unconscious from the shock he’d just been given, Harper had managed a sigh of enormous relief as Rommie pried it off and added it to the pile of chains waiting to be spaced in the airlock. 

“Twig, what are you doing here?” Dylan tried again.

“Needed the latrine,” Twig choked out between sobs. “Robot lady said I could… Couldn’t find it! Lost! I…I…wanna go back!”

And suddenly, Dylan felt awful. _Poor little, lost Twig!_ In the stress and worry of the flight from the planet, then the joyful reunions, then the terror and near-death experience of removing the slave tags, no one had spared even one thought for how it was affecting this little boy. He really was just a tiny, little twig who’d been swept up in a great ocean of events far beyond his understanding! He hadn’t asked for any of this, but he’d followed them and done what they told him for weeks without complaint, trusting them completely while they changed his whole world! He’d sat there and listened to them argue about how to get the slave tags off, how it might kill them all. Then, without anyone asking him how he felt about it, he’d faced the great possibility of death and sure reality of intense pain as they were removed. It was all finally too much, however. He’d reached his breaking point. Fear and panic overwhelmed him and like any frightened child, he desperately wanted the comfort and familiarity of home, even if that home was one of the pits of Hell. After all, he was only a kid!

“Come here, Twig,” Dylan said gently, fighting to contain his own tears. He patted his lap, reveling in the freedom from his chains as the child climbed into it and he was able to finally wrap his arms around him tightly. Maybe eleven almost twelve was too old for such a thing, but not for a boy who had never, ever experienced being held. “It’s okay to be scared, you know that right? All this crazy new stuff! But it’s gonna be all right, Twig. I promise. I know you’re scared and hurting and everything is strange and so new and frightening, but it will be okay. This is just the beginning. You’ve done so good! I’m so proud of you, and so is Harper! Just keep trusting us a little longer, all right?”

Gradually, Twig’s sobs subsided. Still, Dylan held him, cradling the boy’s head to his chest and murmuring soothing sounds as he rubbed his tiny, scarred back. Finally, Twig nodded, looking up at him with exhausted yet completely trusting eyes.

“You are so brave, Twig. Braver than most men I know,” Dylan told him softly, deeply moved by the child’s faith. 

Twig didn’t understand the comment, not really, but gave him a shaky smile anyway.

“Does your chest hurt?” Dylan asked, noticing the child pressing on it.

Twig nodded again.

“Come on then, let’s get you back to the medical room. Harper will be missing you, and Rommie doesn’t like it when her patients escape. You don’t wanna see a grumpy warship,” he added with a tiny wink. Twig’s hesitant smile grew just a little.

In a former life, Dylan would have lifted the child into his arms and carried him back to the safety of the medical room, saving him the extra exertion. But, that was beyond this new version of Dylan Hunt. Instead, he helped his small friend to his feet and then together they walked hand in hand the short way back to the medical room.

*****

Beka stood in the doorway of the _Miss Kitty_ ’s medical room for a long time, just staring. On one side of the chamber, Twig was out cold, exhausted after his emotional breakdown from earlier. Beka had to admit, seeing the way Harper and Dylan felt about the boy, he was kinda growing on her. She supposed she could get used to having the kid around.

On the other side of the small room lay Harper himself, not quite at death’s door anymore, but still far from the young man she remembered. It broke her heart, seeing him like this, knowing what he’d suffered.

“You can come in, you know.”

The whispered words surprised her and she jumped slightly.

“Hey, Harper,” she whispered back, moving into the room and taking the seat next to his cot. “I didn’t know you were awake.”

“Can’t sleep,” he replied honestly. His words lacked any of the usual flippancy. Gently, she reached out and took his better hand in her own, squeezing very lightly.

“I brought you something,” she said quietly. “Maybe it will help with that.” She let go of his hand, and then took the ragged mess of a stuffed toy she’d been carrying and placed it beside him on the medical cot. Carefully, she guided his right hand to it.

It only took him a moment to realize what it was.

“Sylvester?” he breathed, sucking in a gulp of air.

“Yep. I’ve been keeping him safe for you,” she answered, finding herself choked up. “Carrying him wherever I went, so I could give him back the moment we…we found you. I figured you’d need him.” Her throat tightened up and she had to stop, moisture filling her eyes. 

The engineer put an arm around the toy and pulled it close, curling around it. 

And suddenly, he was crying. A year’s worth of emotion leaking out in soft trickles of tears that quickly dissolved into great, frame-wracking sobs. Without hesitation, Beka climbed onto the medical cot beside him and pulled him into her arms, her own tears falling down and getting lost in his short-cropped hair.

“He took it all, Beka!” Harper cried between sobs, anguish he’d never voiced gushing out. “Everything! And…and I can’t see! I just want the dark to go away! I just want…to see,” he finished, his voice trailing off, lost in his tears.

“I know, kiddo, I know,” Beka replied, heartbroken. Unable to do anything else, she simply held her adopted brother tightly while he clung to the childhood toy as if his life depended on it. 

They stayed that way for what could have been hours; Beka rocking and offering what comfort she could while Harper cried his heart out, mourning everything his lost year had cost him. Finally, he quieted, emotionally and physically spent. But still she held him, never wanting to let go again.

That’s how Rommie found them; Beka holding Harper as he clung to his ragged, stuffed toy, both their faces stained with tears and eyes red and puffy. In the corner, Twig still slept, oblivious to the rest of the room.

“The _Andromeda_ has just come out of slipstream,” the android said quietly, eyeing them both with a sad, knowing look. “We’ve come home.” 

 

**END of PART FOUR**

**Author’s Note**  
No, it’s not finished yet. There’s at least one, maybe two parts to go. So I hope you all will continue to stick with me as the story shifts from survival to rebuilding now.

Thanks to all my loyal readers! You guys make my day!


	65. Chapter 64

**Chapter 64**

_I believe that everything happens for a reason  
We’re not just tossed by the wind or left in the hands of fate  
But sometimes life sends a storm that’s unexpected  
And we’re forced to face our deepest pain_

_When I feel the heartache begin to pull me under  
I dig my heels in deep and I fight to keep my ground  
Still at times the hurt inside grows stronger  
And there’s nothing I can do but let it out_

_Just let me cry  
I know it’s hard to see  
But the pain I feel  
Isn’t going away today  
Just let me cry  
Till every tear has fallen  
Don’t ask when and don’t ask why  
Just let me cry_

\- Hillary Weeks

*****

The _Andromeda Ascendant_ loomed large outside the forward window of the _Miss Kitty_ ’s bridge, sleek and smooth and majestic in her field of stars. Dylan stood silent as he watched her draw closer, preparing to accept them into her second hanger, his thoughts and emotions jumbled.

Oh how he’d missed this sight, the feeling of coming home to his ship, watching her approach. He’d almost forgotten how beautiful – how powerful – she was.

And yet, it was different this time. _He_ was different. He’d lived and suffered a lifetime in eleven months, changed in ways that he wasn’t even completely sure of himself. He’d dreamed about this moment all that time, but now that it was happening, he couldn’t even process how he felt. 

There was his ship, his life, waiting for him to take it back. But could he? Could he just slip back into the role of Captain Hunt after eleven months as an unwanted slave? 

The freighter cleared the hanger doors and Patch slowed her to a stop just as Rommie stepped up beside him on the bridge.

“Welcome home, Captain,” she said softly, her emotions only thinly veiled behind professionalism. “Shall I alert the crew to your return?”

Dylan wrenched his eyes and thoughts away from the window as he processed her words. _Alert the crew_? What, no. Not yet. He wasn’t ready for that! Besides, some little niggle of instinct, long suppressed during months of captivity but never completely buried, tickled at the back of his mind, urging him to use caution, to not play his cards too soon. He might need them later, for reasons he didn’t exactly know at the moment.

“No,” he said firmly. “Not yet. Can we just keep this rescue unofficial for a while longer? I don’t exactly feel much like a captain,” he added ruefully, glancing down at the filthy rags he called clothes. 

Rommie nodded. “Of course. I’ll inform Beka of your decision and that she’s still in command. And I’ll make sure the way to med-deck is cleared.”

“I don’t need to go to med –” he started to protest, but it died in his throat as he watched her beautiful face take on that don’t-mess-with-a-warship gleam. “Okay,” he conceded. “Thank you.”

“Dylan, may I…um…permission to…” The avatar broke off, looking embarrassed.

“Permission to what?” he asked.

She didn’t answer. Just reached out and hugged him – tightly. She held on for almost a full minute before stepping back and clearing her throat awkwardly. “I’m glad you’re back,” she whispered, then turned and left the bridge.

Dylan watched her go, his heart a little warmer. He really had come home.

*****

“No.”

“Harper, you’re in no condition to be doing this! I need you to come over to the med-bed and let me start examining you!”

“I said no, Trance.” His voice was quiet but firm. He was planted shakily, Trance between him and his destination. He knew it wouldn’t take more than a gentle nudge from her to just tilt him over and thwart his plan, but he didn’t care. He was standing his ground on this. 

“Harper, I can ord –”

“What?” he interrupted. “Order me to do what you want? Tell me I have no choice? Like a slave?”

He actually heard her intake of breath and knew his words had hit their mark.

“Trance, please,” he said wearily, reaching out his right hand to grab the counter he knew was close by for balance. “I can’t tell you how much I need to do this, wash the last year off my skin. As much as I would normally love one of your sponge baths, they just won’t cut it right now and I am not waiting another minute longer. A little soap and hot water isn’t gonna make any of my crappy problems any worse.”

She sighed, and Harper thought she sounded very sad. In fact, she hadn’t sounded anything but sad since the moment she’d met them in the hanger bay. He hoped that sad, pitying tone he was getting from all his friends wouldn’t last forever.

“Okay,” she conceded. She stepped up to him and he felt her take his good hand from the counter and place something in it. “Use this. It will kill the lice.”

“Thanks,” he said, clutching the bottle. She walked him to the door of the med-deck’s head and then thankfully left him alone.

It was awkward and ungraceful, but he managed to find the shower stall without running into anything. Less than a minute later the rags he’d been wearing for what felt like decades were lying in a pile on the deck outside it and amazingly warm water was hitting him all over. He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall for support, just letting it wash over him, barely aware of the tears that fell from his eyes and mixed with it.

He stood there for minutes, hours, years – letting the water cleanse him, draining away the filth, dirt, and stench of the camp. It stung the still healing wounds on his back, wrists, ankles and feet, but he didn’t care. It was still heaven.

If only a little water could really wash everything away, though – fix it all, turn back the clock. There wasn’t enough water in the entire universe to actually take away the stink of slavery. Sadly, Harper knew with every fiber of his being that the stains of slavery went much deeper than that, and never really washed away. Nothing could ever give him back the last year of his life, his sense of self-worth and pride, or bring back the light. 

Eventually, when all his tears were spent and his body mostly numb from the hot, pounding water, he lifted his head and pushed back from the wall. He used Trance’s bottle of special goo, applying it liberally to his whole body before rinsing, and then shut off the stream.

Shaking now, what little energy he’d regained in the last few days of limited medical care and rest exhausted, he managed to exit the shower stall and find the small bench he remembered sat just outside it. His searching fingers connected with something fluffy and warm – a towel. With a sigh of relief, he wrapped it around his trembling body and sank down onto the bench. 

Ten minutes later he emerged from the little room, dressed in the soft medical scrubs that had been left for him in place of his rags and holding tightly to the walls to stay upright. Someone was instantly at his side.

“Are you ready now, Harper?” It was Trance.

“Yeah. Thank you. I’m all yours,” he answered, allowing her to lead him slowly to the examining room.

*****

Dylan hated being fussed over. He liked to think he was big and strong and tough and didn’t need it. Yet, try as he might, he couldn’t get out of it this time. Which was why he was currently sitting shirtless on one of Andromeda’s medical beds, being poked and prodded by both Rommie and Trance. At least Beka had finally disappeared, called off to the duties of command. Dylan was almost jealous.

“Are you sure, Dylan?” Rommie asked once again, a distressed look on her face as she scanned his bare skin, cataloguing the many healing scars that now marred what had once been smooth flesh. Both she and Trance had been deeply upset by the lash marks he now bore. They expected them on Harper, but for some reason, both women had been shocked to see them on him. And that slight inequality of expectations grated on him in a way it never would have a year ago, a subtle acceptance of the unfair way the universe worked. 

“Can you remove Harper’s?” he asked softly, glancing over to the side of their private room where an exhausted but clean Harper now slept, curled in fetal position on his own bed. A third bed just beyond held an also sleeping Twig.

“No,” Trance answered for the android, shaking her head sadly. “The scans reveal the tissue damage is too extensive and deep. It would require months of surgeries, each one an added assault to his already compromised immune system, and even then the scars couldn’t be erased completely. It’s simply not worth the risk.”

“That’s what I thought. So no, I’m not leaving Harper as the only one with physical reminders of the last year in hell,” he said firmly. 

They stopped bugging him about it after that. 

Trance spread a nanosalve over his abused wrists and then bandaged them carefully, admonishing him not to get them wet for at least twenty-four hours so the healing could be completed. That was fine with him – like Harper and Twig, he’s already had his long-dreamed-of shower. 

Then the injections began. 

Ones to help rebuild bone density and muscle, to counter the loss of tooth enamel. Apparently, the Niet’s standard diet for their slaves was lacking in twelve out of twelve of the recommended nutritional standards. 

There were antibiotics against anything and everything, just to be safe. When Andromeda had scanned Harper and determined the cough he was suffering from came as a symptom of an acute case of Tuberculosis, slight panic had ensued. That disease was one of the ones she’d vaccinated the Maru’s crew against the day they signed on; Harper should have been immune. An hour of frantic searching had revealed that, despite being vaccinated, the strain had mutated, and coupled with the engineer’s lousy immune system was proving deadly. Rommie and Trance had synthesized a different treatment and administered it, unsure if it would work. For now, Harper appeared to be resting quietly and his coughs were lessened, but no one quite dared breathe a sigh of relief yet.

The whole thing meant Trance wasn’t leaving anything else up to chance. When it was Dylan’s turn to get looked after, she pumped him chuck full of antibiotics to treat anything she felt he might've even been slightly exposed to, and a few that he probably hadn’t been at all.

“Dylan, there are…well, the same foreign proteins and markers in your blood now that Harper has always had,” the golden girl said, trying to be diplomatic as she continued with her assessment and scans. 

His mind was pulled back to that night on Sommer’s Drift almost a year ago and Harper’s pained admission about the meaning behind the symbols on the doorway. He’d actually forgotten about that conversation, but he answered Trance now with a small nod. “I know. We were injected with a bunch of junk before being turned loose into the camp. Harper warned me what might be included.”

“I can’t remove them,” Trance replied gently.

“Will they harm me?” he asked.

“No. Just…um...set you apart.” She winced at her own words.

“Well you know me, Trance. I always did like to stand out,” he teased, trying to bring some ease back to the increasingly awkward conversation. She smiled lightly and then moved on to whatever she felt needed fixing about him next.

Embarrassed and feeling very much like a semi-naked pincushion, Dylan let his thoughts drift. The topic his mind wandered to was beyond predictable – Harper and Twig.

He glanced back over at his friends, sadness filling him. 

Twig had been given the diagnosis of extreme malnutrition, stunted growth and slight developmental delay, and damage to the valves in his heart. The twelve-year-old – Rommie had officially calculated his age – had the weight and stature of a child much younger. He would require the same treatments as Dylan for the effects of malnutrition, though for a much longer time, and a lot of love and support to overcome the emotional scars of his past. Trance was confident the damage to his heart could be fixed, but she didn’t want to try until he was significantly stronger. Until then, she would closely regulate it through a combination of drugs and technology. 

Still, it made Dylan’s soul a little lighter, knowing the boy would be okay.

Too bad the same couldn’t be said for both his companions.

For Harper, the road to recovery was going to be vastly different. Just like him, the malnutrition, lost strength and energy, and open sores could be treated fairly easily. Some good meds, a lot of rest, and a little physical therapy and he’d be all right. His mangled back, finally free of infection, would heal into more scars to be hidden away beneath his clothes. And now that he was safely in Trance and Rommie’s capable hands, even the Tuberculosis could be dealt with, though it might take a little time.

If only Harper’s list of injuries stopped there. Dylan found himself fighting back strong emotion again as he remembered a few hours earlier when Trance had delivered the blows as gently as she could. Dylan had sat silently beside the kid, there in that place of honor by Harper’s own request, listening as his worst fears were confirmed. 

His left hand was damaged beyond what Trance was confident trying to fix on her own with _Andromeda’s_ limited medical equipment, as was the destroyed mess that was his dataport. She believed, given the right surgeon, the hand could be repaired with relatively small health risks to a point Harper would be able to use it again. The dataport was iffier. It had been a calculated choice for the Earther to have it installed in the first place, replacing it might be beyond what was medically sound, and again was something Trance was not willing to attempt herself. If it really wasn’t replaceable, Dylan knew Harper might just give up, especially given the last prognosis.

His sight was destroyed, the blindness permanent. Multiple scans revealed that Felix’s lasers had not simply damaged the eyes themselves, but completely burned out the entire optic nerve. It couldn’t be reconstructed because there was nothing left to reconstruct.

Trance, Rommie, even Beka had urged him not to lose hope. The _Andromeda_ was only one corner of a very large universe, and no one was going to stop until they’d explored every option. But for the time being, he was still stuck in the dark, still blind. Dylan could see how much those words killed his friend, brought back the despair that being rescued had pushed aside for a little while. 

As he stared at Harper now, curled into a tight ball as he slept as if trying to protect himself from reality, Dylan knew they still had a long way to go before life became anything close to normal again.

“Dylan? Dylan, you with us?”

“Captain?”

Dylan finally realized both Rommie and Trance were calling him, trying to bring his attention out of his lost thoughts and back to the present.

“Yes, what?” he asked distractedly.

“Trance is done with her work now and you can redress,” Rommie said, obviously repeating something she’d already told him. 

“Thanks,” he muttered tiredly, slipping the clean shirt back over his head. After everything that had happened in the last few hours – heck the last few days – he felt ready to sleep for a week.

“You can rest here, or in your own quarters if you like. I can monitor you from either place, so the choice is yours.”

His own quarters? His rooms, with his own stuff, and the long forgotten idea of privacy? It was almost a foreign concept and another dream he hadn’t been sure would ever come true again.

Then he glanced once more at the sleeping forms of his young friends, small and vulnerable in the clinical room. They’d spent a year looking out for each other, watching and supporting night and day, through experiences no one else on the ship could even begin to fathom. 

“I think I’ll stay here tonight,” he said quietly. 

Rommie nodded and Trance smiled, bustling off to quickly return with a thick stack of blankets. She tucked several around both Harper and Twig, then handed him the remaining ones.

“Goodnight, Dylan,” she said, her smile still tinged with deep sadness. “I knew you’d make it home.”


	66. Chapter 65

**Chapter 65**

_I sought my soul, but my soul I could not see. I sought my God, but my God eluded me. I sought my brother and I found all three._

\- Unknown.

*****

Sitting at her desk in the captain’s office, Beka hadn’t even realized that her head had sunk into her arms or that her eyes had drifted shut until she was jolted by the sound of the door chime. She jerked upright again, frantically running her hands over her face and through her hair in a vain attempt to look awake.

“Yes…right…come in,” she stammered, folding her hands nonchalantly on the desk.

The door slid open and Patch entered. He took one look at her and his bearded lips turned up into a smile.

“How was the nap, Becky-girl?”

“What nap? What are you talking about?” she protested, pouring indignation into her voice even as she brushed at her rumpled shirt.

“I’m talking about the red mark in the middle of your forehead, with the pattern of buttons in it.” His “gotcha” grin was unmistakable now.

She let out a small snort and allowed herself to slouch in the chair, dropping the act to hide her weariness.

“Gotta remember not to wear this shirt while on duty,” she muttered.

Patch just laughed.

“You look exhausted. You probably deserved the nap.” He helped himself to another chair in the room.

“I am exhausted,” she replied honestly.

“How are they doing?”

Beka didn’t have to ask to know who he was talking about. Her own thoughts hadn’t left the subject all night.

“Well, they’re alive,” she answered, wishing she could give a better one.

“Give them time, Beka. You can’t fix a year of suffering in one night, no matter how much your heart wants to.”

She knew that, she really did, but it still felt so wrong! To know that Dylan and Harper were back on _Andromeda_ where they belonged, and yet, somehow everything was still messed up and different.

“But as for this old captain,” Patch continued talking, “Time for me to say so long.”

“You’re leaving already?” she cried, standing up as sadness shot through her. She’d been hoping to have some time to really reconnect with her godfather now that her friends were back safe and they weren’t all in the middle of life or death peril.

“Got to. Didn’t mind help you at all and I’d do it again at the drop of a hat, but there’s bills to pay. You know the drill. Besides, I gotta to see how many of my crew decided to hang around and how many new punks I gotta break in to fill the vacancies.” 

The never-ending cycle of a freighter pilot’s life – she did know it well, and when she was being completely honest with herself in the dead of night, she even admitted she missed it sometimes. It was a hard, crappy, living-hand-to-mouth kind of life, but it was also exhilarating in its freedom.

She nodded, walking around the big imposing desk.

“Thank you, Patch,” she said, not even caring that she was still technically on duty as she wrapped her arms around him and poured all her emotions into one huge hug. “I can never repay you or thank you enough for what you did for me this time.”

“No thanks needed, Becky-girl. Just keeping promises made a long time ago,” he said gently, patting her back.

They stayed that way for a moment before he pulled back. “Now don’t go blabbin’ all this mushiness, okay? I got my reputation to keep up!”

“My lips are sealed,” she said, smiling. “Valentine honor. Now come on, I’ll walk you to your wreak of a ship.”

“Watch it, Becky,” Patch growled playfully as they stepped out of the office. “Never insult a man’s lady, no matter how hard on the eyes she might be.”

*****

Harper woke to the all-too-familiar feeling of his lungs constricting, unable to draw in enough air between hacking coughs to keep from panicking. Wave after wave of the convulsions seized him, and he curled up tight trying to ride through the breathlessness and pain, hoping to suck a little oxygen into his trembling body. After a moment, he felt gentle hands on his shoulders that pulled him carefully upright.

“Breathe, Mr. Harper. Just breathe,” Dylan’s voice urged him softly.

The change in positions helped, and after several more long minutes he was finally able to bring the ragged coughs under control. Still, for a while he just sat there, shaking.

“Can you sit on your own?” Dylan asked him after a moment.

He nodded, not daring to speak yet. 

Dylan stepped away, but Harper could still hear his movements so he knew the captain hadn’t left the room. After barely any time at all, he was back. He felt the bed he was sitting on rise up slightly at the head. 

“Here,” his friend said, stuffing several pillows between him and the med-bed, then gently pushing him back against them. “Deep breaths. Keep going, that’s good.” 

Finally, Harper’s breathing returned to normal, or at least what was normal for him these days. “Thanks,” he muttered. Heaven knew this wasn’t the first time he’d woken Dylan in the middle of the night with his coughing, but it was the first time the other man had been able to give him pillows to help fight it. That was certainly a plus.

“No problem,” Dylan answered. “Here, drink some water.”

A cup was placed in his good hand and he put it to his lips gratefully, drinking slowly. The water was cool and clean, another new perk. He drained it, then handed the empty cup back.

“Twig still asleep?”

“Yes,” Dylan answered. “He stirred for a minute, but didn’t actually wake. I think Trance may have given him something to help him rest.”

“Good. Kid needs it.”

“So do you.”

Another coughing fit seized him before he could answer, but this one wasn’t as long or as harsh. Sitting up really did help.

“Think I’ll stay up for a while, Boss, if it’s all the same to you,” he finally said weakly.

“Okay,” was all Dylan answered. The captain stepped away, most likely to return to his own bed, and a sudden irrational burst of panic welled up inside Harper.

“Wait, Dylan!” he cried, reaching out.

“Yes?”

He blushed, embarrassed by his outburst. “Erm, nothing,” he tried to backpedal, shaking his head. This wasn’t their prison barrack, their disgusting pile of straw. There was no longer any need to huddle together like sardines in a filthy can for warmth and support. They were safe – back on the _Andromeda_. And he was being ridiculous.

Yet, even as he sat on that soft bed, propped up by pillows and covered in warm blankets, Harper couldn’t help feeling so exposed and helpless. The empty, quiet space of their private recovery room yawned around him, exacerbated by the constant dark void he existed in now. He missed the physical connection to his friends, that ever-present reminder that he really wasn’t alone. 

Dylan stepped away, back to his own bed, and Harper closed his eyes. It was easier to pretend that the blackness around him was natural that way and not because he was worthless and broken. Still, they popped back open in surprise a few seconds later when he heard the unmistakable sound of something dragging across the floor.

“I’ve never understood why these things didn’t have wheels on them,” Dylan muttered, his voice slightly strained.

Harper grinned. A few more squeaks and grunts, a long metallic scraping sound, and then he felt the edge of something bump up against his bed by the wall. 

“Trance is gonna have a fit when she sees you rearranged her furniture,” he teased, unable to hide the pure gratitude.

“Probably,” the captain replied, not sounding very worried at all. The bed that Dylan had moved beside Harper’s shifted slightly and he knew Dylan had climbed on, sitting next to him. Sighing in quiet relief, he leaned back against his pillows and tried to relax, to keep the coughing fit from returning.

They sat in silence for a while, Harper safe in the knowledge that he wasn’t alone. For the first time since being back, he let himself listen. Twig’s steady, quiet breathing came from just a few feet away, telling him the boy was sleeping peacefully. From the far right of the room he heard the light hum of machines and monitors, a reminder that Andromeda was ever-present, keeping watch as well. Concentrating harder, he focused his sensitive ears and found he was able to pick out the tiny buzz of _Andromeda’s_ engines, quietly running, keeping them all safe and alive.

His thoughts drifted back, way back to the last time he’d sat in the dark and listened to the engines of a spaceship hum. Those had been his first few hours of blindness, and they were wrapped in a hazy memory of agony, fear and despair. At that time, he’d been absolutely sure he’d never make it back to _Andromeda_ , never again hear those engines he loved so much purr.

“Thanks,” he suddenly said to Dylan without really thinking.

“You don’t need to thank me, Harper. You’re not the only one finding it hard to forget or adjust,” the other man replied, his voice absolutely sincere.

“Good to know, but that wasn’t really what I was talking about, though thanks for that, too,” Harper said. 

“Oh, well then, what?”

“Just…thanks. Thanks for everything.” Harper turned toward his friend, hoping Dylan would see how serious he was being for once in his life. “For what you did. For what you keep doing. For giving up so much and sticking with me, always being there, always watching out for me, even when I’m such a mess. Without you, I know I wouldn’t have survived long enough to even make it to the camp. I’d have died on that march out there. Heck, I probably wouldn’t have made it off Felix’s ship in the first place because I would have done something deliberately stupid to make them finish me off. I owe you my life a thousand times over, and I don’t even know where to start with repaying that.”

Dylan didn’t answer right away and as the silence stretched, Harper started to wonder if he’d crossed a line. Maybe, now they were home, the captain would rather forget about it all. Maybe he deeply regretted his decision to throw everything away just to keep a scrawny Kludge alive. 

When the other man finally did speak, however, his voice was rough with emotion. “Contrary to popular belief,” his friend said, “I wasn’t an only child.”

“Huh?” Harper responded eloquently, unsure how this conversation had just moved so quickly from left to right field. Dylan squeezed his shoulder, a gesture of friendship and support, and an unspoken plea to hear him out. He clamped his lips shut.

“CJ was four years younger than me. He was funny and impulsive, with a wickedly sarcastic sense of humor, the life of every party. He was also brilliant and driven, fiercely loyal. We were as different as night and day, but that didn’t matter. He was my brother and my best friend all rolled into one and we did everything together.”

Dylan sighed, then spoke again in a broken voice. “He died three weeks before his eighteenth birthday.”

“What happened?” Harper asked softly, still confused by the sudden change of topic but drawn into the story nonetheless. 

“Just a normal game of basketball between brothers. He took a ball from me to the head, but laughed it off and went on to win the game. We went in, ate dinner with my parents and went to bed. He never woke up. The doctors said it was a cerebral aneurysm. He’d had it since he was born, but a blow in just the right place had caused it to rupture. He bled out in his sleep.”

Harper wanted to say _“I’m sorry”_ or _“it wasn’t your fault”_ , offer comfort the same way Dylan had all those times he’d let the demons of his own past slip out, but his coughs chose that moment to return. As he rode out the convulsions and pain, the captain sat silently, strong, supporting hands keeping him upright. He was shaking again when he finally leaned back against the pillows – aching, breathless, and worn out.

“You blamed yourself…didn’t you? When he died?” he whispered, still trying to ease the strain on his tortured lungs. He knew exactly what it was like to carry the guilt of a failure like this.

“Yes,” Dylan answered, his voice still very raw. “For a long time.”

The conversation died for a while, Dylan lost in his thoughts of the past while Harper closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath. When the other man spoke again, his voice was soft and sad.

“You remind me so much of him, Harper.”

Harper turned toward his friend in surprise. “Me?”

“Yes, you, Seamus Zelazny Harper. From the moment you and Beka and everyone else joined me on this pipedream mission, all I could see when I was around you was CJ. It…it opened up old wounds, brought back the pain I thought I’d managed to hide away.

“So, I took the coward’s way out. I kept you at arm’s length, more than anyone else on the crew, never letting you get too close. I kept things formal and cool between us, which I know left you hurt and confused. All you ever did was work harder, try to win my respect and friendship, when the reality was you had it all along. I was just too afraid of the past to let it show.”

Sitting on the med-bed as he listened to Dylan’s admission, Harper was stunned. He had no idea what to say in return.

“I should have told you all this years ago. I should have confessed sometime during those months of hell in the camp. At the very least I should have let you know about CJ when you told me about Colleen. But Harper, I was scared. Terrified. Because, the honest truth is that I do care. Despite every bull-headed thing I did to keep you from getting close, you found a way around them all. You’re family, Harper. And I lived in panic every day that I was going to lose you, too. That no matter how hard I tried or what I did, it wouldn’t be enough to keep you alive.”

Harper hadn’t heard the captain’s voice sound so rough and tear-filled since the day he’d watched him say goodbye to Sara for the last time. It brought tears he couldn’t hold back to his own eyes. 

“So, Harper,” Dylan continued softly, but with an urgency to his words. “I want you to know all this, and I want you to understand something. I will never, ever regret the decision I made on Felix’s ship, and I would make the same choice again tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, if it meant I could in any way spare you more pain. Not because I was protecting my crew. Not because I felt honor or duty bound to do it. But because you’re my friend, Harper, and I didn’t want to have to face a life without you in it. I didn’t want to lose another brother.”

Now the tears really did crest Harper’s unseeing eyes, and he turned away slightly, wiping at his face self-consciously with the back of his good hand as Dylan continued.

“And you are not in any way indebted to me for saving your life, because I didn’t save your life, you saved mine. You reminded me what loyalty and friendship mean. You called me on my bullcrap and helped me see what a jerk I was becoming, how far from my self-proclaimed mission I was straying. You showed me that I hadn’t become the man I’d hoped CJ could have been proud of. You gave me hope and laughter and kindness and strength in a place that actively tried to kill all those things. Your friendship and courage and determination got me through one day at a time in that pit. Without you there beside me, there’s no way I would have survived. So, I’m the one who should be saying thank you, at least a thousand times over as well. And in some ways, I feel like even with all the horror and suffering, I came out a little richer, because I have a younger brother again.”

Dylan finished speaking, and for a while, Harper just sat there, trying to process everything.

“I’m scared, Dylan,” he finally whispered, his turn to abruptly change the conversation’s direction. “I’m scared and I’m angry and it all feels so hopeless. We got rescued, saved and brought home, and now everything gets to go back to normal for everyone else – but me. It’s not fair! I just want to see again!”

“I know.”

“What do I do? How can I be…me…if I can’t do what I love, if I don’t even have eyes or hands that work? When I’m just useless now?”

Suddenly, Dylan’s fingers were brushing against his neck, tugging carefully at the thin string he wore around it, pulling his rabbit’s foot loose from the folds of his clothes. The captain placed it firmly in his good hand and closed his fingers around it.

“Colleen couldn’t walk or talk. Was she useless? Not worthy of having around?”

The words were like a bucket of cold water being dumped over his head, and Harper sucked in a ragged, surprised breath. “No!” he answered fervently.

“Well, the same goes for you. Your worth is not tied to your eyes or your hands. It’s not even tied to your ability to be a genius engineer. You’re more than that. Much more. There’s a little boy right here that loves you with his whole heart. You changed his entire world, without hands or eyes. That’s not an insignificant thing.”

Harper clutched the small, soft piece of his past tightly, his eyes squeezed shut. “I know, Boss. I know. But what will I do, if I stay this way forever?”

“I don’t know,” Dylan answered him honestly, the sadness thick in his voice again. “I don’t know how we’re going to fix all of this yet. But I’m not going anywhere – none of us are. Give us a chance to try?”

Harper didn’t answer, just let the conversation die off as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, still stroking the rabbit’s foot. They were safe, but there was still so much uncertainty, so much fear. They could talk in circles all night and it wouldn’t solve anything. Still, there was one thing more he wanted to know. “Dylan?” he eventually asked.

“Yes?”

“What did CJ stand for?”

“Carmichael James.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “No offence, Boss, but man, your folks were lousy at names.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Dylan said with a small laugh. “Now, try and get some more sleep.”

Harper just nodded and slowly moved his aching body to lie down, exhaustion already trying to drag him back into its clutches.


	67. Chapter 66

**Chapter 66**

_“Listen to the mustn'ts, child. Listen to the don'ts. Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me... Anything can happen, child. Anything can be.”_

― Shel Silverstein

*****

Sitting in the small alcove that constituted her “office” on med-deck, Trance frowned at the readings she was getting from Andromeda’s screens.

“Trance?”

She looked up at the sound of Beka’s voice.

“In here,” she called back quietly. She stuck her head out so Beka could see her and placed a warning finger against her lips as she nodded to the mostly closed door off to her left. “Shh…” she added.

“Oh, sorry,” Beka whispered, looking sheepish as she walked over to Trance’s little room. “Are they still asleep?”

“Yes, finally,” she answered her friend. “Harper had a rough night.” Coughing had kept the engineer up for several hours. She’d been ready to go check on him when she’d heard Dylan and Harper start talking. Something told her this was an important conversation that needed to happen without interruption, so she held back, especially since there was little she could do anyway. Eventually, their voices had died out, as had Harper’s coughs. When she’d finally crept in to check on her friends a little while later, all three of her charges had been asleep. And sleep was the best healing medicine in the universe – she wouldn’t wake them until she absolutely had to.

“What’s all this?” Beka asked, pointing to the jumble of information on her monitors.

“Harper’s scans,” she answered sadly. 

It had broken her heart to crush Harper’s dreams yesterday, to know she couldn’t give him the miracle he’d been holding out hope for. She’d known if her best friend ever managed to make it back to her he would be changed and hurt, but she’d never imagined he might be blind!

“Is there anything you missed, anything new?” The pleading in Beka’s voice echoed her own feelings of helplessness back at her. Trance shook her head dejectedly.

“Nothing good,” she said, causing the pages of information to scroll by one more time as she double-checked, her frown deepening.

“You mean there’s new _bad_ info?” Beka asked, leaning wearily against the wall of Trance’s alcove.

With a sigh, Trance nodded. “The Tuberculosis is not responding to the drugs like I hoped it would.”

“So, try different drugs,” Beka said.

Andromeda’s hologram flickered into the space beside Beka. “It’s not that easy. This is a new strain I’m unfamiliar with. Tuberculosis was virtually eradicated during the First Commonwealth, but my medical records still contained information on how to treat it, how to synthesize the medicine, just in case. We’d hoped that the cure I have on file would have been similar enough to treat the disease, but it’s not working. Some of my records have been updated since the Fall, but this strand of Tuberculosis is mutated and wasn’t included.”

“Then what do we do? I refuse to let Harper die from some disease that’s not even supposed to exist anymore!”

Trance had been pondering the possible options, trying to run down the consequences of each path, decide what was best. “We need to send someone to the Research Hospital on Sinti,” she suddenly said, making up her mind.

“You really think the chinheads have the answer?”

“They do have the largest Archive of Infectious Diseases in the known worlds. They’ve been collecting samples for centuries. They would be the best chance of having a sample of Harper’s strain,” Andromeda responded.

“Perhaps your friend Captain Patch would be willing – ” Trance started to say but stopped abruptly when Beka shook her head.

“He just left,” she said morosely. “But I can – ”

“I will go.”

Trance and Beka whipped around to find Tyr leaning against one of the exam beds, arms across his chest.

“Why?” Beka finally asked.

Trance narrowed her eyes, trying to peer ahead into the possibilities again, see what Tyr’s ulterior motive might be and if it would be harmful in the long-run, but she saw nothing at all in the pulsating strands.

“You are still captain of this vessel,” he said to Beka. “You cannot go. The avatar cannot fly the _Maru_ through slipstream, and we all know better than to let the gold one do it.” Trance couldn’t help a small smile at that comment, acknowledging the truth in his words. “Besides, she is needed here. The obvious choice is for me to go.”

Trance nodded. “You will need to take copies of Harper’s scans as well as samples of his blood and the fluid in his lungs.”

Andromeda’s hologram disappeared and Trance knew she was already preparing the files on a flexi. Standing, she moved past Beka into the main area of Med-deck, quickly gathering the samples that were needed. She was grateful she’d collected extra yesterday. Harper would have been very grumpy with her if she woke him up just to tell him she had to stick him with more of the needles he loved so much. Carefully, she secured the viles and flexi into a metal case.

“I should probably make some kind of official letter to go with that,” Beka said, remembering after a moment that she was still in command. “I’ll meet you at the _Maru_ in ten minutes.” She started to leave, but stopped and turned back. “Oh, and Tyr, be nice to my ship,” she added with a glare before walking away.

“Speed would be good,” Trance said pointedly, nodding to the closed door before handing the large Nietzschean the case. “No side trips.”

“I know the stakes. I will be back within two day’s time,” he said solemnly, bowing slightly before taking the case and exiting. 

“Be careful, Tyr,” Trance called softly to his withdrawing back. “People will start to think that you care.”

If he heard her, he gave no indication and she smiled in knowing satisfaction before turning back to her tasks. Two days was still plenty of time for a deadly disease to wreak havoc on a weak little human body. She needed to research other options for keeping it at bay until the Kodiak could return.

*****

The door slid open, releasing a puff of stale air. Dylan stepped quietly inside and then stopped, letting it close behind him. For a while he just stood there, looking around.

His quarters appeared exactly as he had left them nearly a year ago when he headed out on what he thought would be a short, solo mission. Nothing had been touched or removed. It was like gazing into a snapshot of the Dylan who’d walked out of that room, the man he’d been. Time had been stopped once again on his ship only this time he hadn’t been frozen with it. The man who’d left this room all those months before was not the same man who’d just come back in. 

Finally, he moved forward, running his hands softly across the shelf that held his books and pictures, brushing the coverlet on the bed. They were his things and their familiarity pulled at him like a warm hearth, and yet they felt foreign and strange at the same time. 

He stopped before the picture of Sara and him, caressing the image with gentle fingers. He gave her up, though it broke his heart, to willingly come back to his new time, to try and make the universe a better place. And then he allowed himself to get distracted, to forget it all. He became haughty, self-centered – a cad. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the image. “I’m sorry I forgot.”

There were other things he’d forgotten, things he pushed aside as unimportant. He glanced again around the room. Sara’s picture was there, but where were the photos of his parents? Of CJ? Of Beka and Trance and Harper? A captain didn’t normally display mementos of his subordinates, but from day one that was never how it had worked with them. They weren’t just captain and crew, they were a family – the only one he had left – and they meant as much to him as the one he’d lost. Had Rhade’s betrayal destroyed his trust so much that he put up impregnable walls around his heart? Had he really been that cold and aloof before this nightmare?

Harper had only set foot on Sommer’s Drift out of loyalty to him and his “mission,” a mission the young man didn’t always believe in himself. But he believed in Dylan, enough to risk everything. His friend had lost so much, paid such a dear price for his loyalty.

Beka had shouldered a command she’d never wanted in the first place - for him, to keep his dream alive. She, along with Trance and Tyr and Rommie, had turned the galaxy upside down searching for them, never giving up hope. No one in his old Commonwealth of rules and protocol had ever cared that much about him. 

How arrogantly he’d marched into this time, vowing to push back the darkness, restore light and order and right. Acting like he and he alone knew what was best for the entire universe, had the market cornered on goodness. And yet he’d never bothered to look for the good that already existed, was all around him.

_No more_ , he vowed silently. He was going to make sure that not all of these sacrifices and sufferings were in vain. He couldn’t turn back the clock, restore the last year, save Harper from the agony and loss, but he could make sure he never, ever forgot again.

Reaching into the pocket of the clothes he’d been given to wear while in medical, he pulled out the knife he’d found back in the mine, the one that had made such a difference to their survival while on the run. It was dirty and ugly, a reminder of an evil, loathsome place. Exactly what Dylan wanted – a reminder to never again take things for granted, to never forget. Almost reverently, he set it on the shelf beside Sara’s photo. As soon as he had a moment, other pictures would be joining it, on the shelf and around the walls of his quarters.

But for now, it was time to go to work.

“Rommie?” he called, moving purposefully to his closet, his heart doing a little dance of joy at the thought of wearing real, decent, clean clothes.

“Yes, Dylan?” The ship’s hologram blinked into life.

“Would you ask Beka if she’d be willing to meet me here in twenty minutes? An off-the-record “official” meeting?”

Rommie’s face took on the look she got when she was relaying information before she responded. “Beka says of course and to tell you she’ll bring the coffee.”

“Good,” he said with a small smile. “We’ll probably need it.”

He showered quickly, despite the tantalizing desire to stand in the warm water for ages, relishing in a simple privilege so long denied. There would be other days for that. The clothes he pulled on when he was finished hung lose and baggy about his frame, another visible reminder of how much he’d changed. He tugged the pants up around his waist in annoyance, wondering if he still had a belt. 

“ _Nietzschean Slave Camp – the diet that works_ ,” he mumbled, digging through his drawers until he came up with an ancient pair of suspenders that he didn’t even remember owning. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and he slipped them on over his undershirt and then pulled his shirt back on top.

The door chime rang while he was combing his hair and he quickly let Beka in. For a moment, she just stood there frozen, a thermos in each hand.

“What?” he eventually asked. 

“It’s just…well…you finally look like Dylan again.”

He gave her an ironic smile. “It’s the first time I’ve actually felt like me in a long time,” he agreed.

“Oh, here,” she said, thrusting the silver container into his hands. “Don’t tell Trance I gave you caffeine.”

“And risk more fussing?” he scoffed, gesturing toward his small sitting area. “I’m smarter than that.”

Beka gave a small laugh and sat down. He took the chair across from her and then took a sip of the warm drink.

It was heavenly! The flavor exploded in his mouth, the best thing he’d tasted in a year, and a small sigh escaped him as he closed his eyes for just a moment in pure bliss.

When he opened them again, Beka was staring at him, her emotions raw and transparent. He suspected she was remembering, seeing him how he’d looked a week ago when he walked into that wrecked ship wearing chains and rags, looking every bit the part of staving slave.

“I’ll be okay, Beka,” he said softly, moved by her obvious concern.

She shook her head, pasting on a more normal expression. “I know,” she answered quickly. “I just…well…I missed you. I was starting to think I might never…see you again.”

“We have you to thank for that not happening.”

Her face fell and she leaned forward, setting the drink on his table and then resting her arms on her legs. “I took too long, Dylan. I should have had you guys out of there months ago.”

“How?” he asked simply. “Did you know where we were?”

“No.”

“Then how would you have ever found us earlier?”

“I should have tried harder. Should have thought to look on Rellim; it was on Harper’s list after all. You would have – ”

“Beka, stop,” he said, putting a hand on hers to keep her from going on. “Just stop. You found us, you came, you got us out. You never gave up. So don’t play the ‘should have’ game. I know from experience it does no good.”

She finally looked up, meeting his eyes. 

“Thank you,” he said fervently. “For everything.” 

She swallowed thickly and looked away. After a moment to compose herself she turned back, her tough-Beka mask back up.

“You ready to take this gig back?” she asked.

“Do you want to keep it?” he countered, completely serious. In the old Commonwealth, his tour of duty would have been over several years ago. He’d spoken with Rommie earlier; Beka had done an excellent, if slightly unorthodox, job as captain over the last year. It wasn’t fair to come back and simply yank that away from her if she now wanted to continue.

“Oh, heck no!” she cried, fervently shaking her head. “I’ve got grey hairs because of this last year! All this diplomacy and responsibility and having to act mature and polite… Why would I _want_ that?”

Dylan laughed, leaning back and drinking more of the black ambrosia she’d brought him.

“Rommie says you’ve done well,” he told her honestly.

“Did she also show you the list of people who have now crossed us of their Christmas Card list?”

“I always hated that list, anyway.”

She finally laughed as well, but it was short lived before she quieted again. ‘So, are you ready?”

 _No_ , a part of him wanted to say, the part that was still afraid he’d changed too much to slip back into this life, but he remembered Harper and Simon and Sara and pushed that part aside. “Yes,” he said out loud.

“Rommie?” Beka called. Andromeda’s hologram appeared immediately. “Please note that Dylan is officially back in command, and I’m extremely happy to be demoted down to first officer and somewhat disreputable freighter captain again.”

“Noted and logged,” Rommie said with a small smile, then she turned to Dylan. “Welcome back.”

“Thank you, Rommie. And how about we hold off making an official announcement for a while, until I get all the way up to speed?”

“Or course. Would you like me to inform Trance and Tyr?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

She nodded and blinked out.

“So,” Dylan asked, looking back at Beka. “What have I missed?”

*****

Dylan was furious. He stalked through the corridors on his way to Med-deck, ignoring the shocked and disbelieving looks from the crew he was no longer actively avoiding, replaying the conversation with Beka over and over through his mind.

The Triumvirate were acting like idiots!

An entire year, and nothing had been done about the looming threat of the Worldship! No plan, no mobilization, nothing! They didn’t even seem to acknowledge that it existed! As if they expected to stick their heads in the sand and it would go right past them!

And then there was the fact that not only had the Commonwealth in essence washed their hands of Harper and him after they’d been captured on a mission _they’d_ ordered him on, but from what Beka had told him they’d practically commanded the others _not_ to look, _not_ to rescue them. Beka had been forced to use all the cunning, devious tricks she’d once employed to sneak behind the back of their own government, just to save two Commonwealth officers!

It was insane! And it made his blood boil. This was not the way things were supposed to work. He had an armada of questions that needed answers and the Triumvirate needed a strong wake-up call, both things he planned on delivering in person when he crashed their next meeting on Tarazed.

Med-deck was strangely quiet when he slipped inside, Trance nowhere in sight. Dylan breathed a sigh of relief. He was due another nutritional supplement and round of antibiotics and he wasn’t looking forward to it. He crossed quickly through the empty space and to the door of the private room where Harper was still confined. The blast of cold air that hit him in the face when he entered took him entirely by surprise. 

“Wow,” he muttered, stopping short just inside the entrance. He could almost see his breath.

 

“Welcome to the North Pole,” Harper said, his sarcasm not able to completely hide the weariness in his voice.

The boy was sitting up on his bed, swathed in blankets. What alarmed Dylan most, however, was the addition of an IV line that disappeared under the blankets and the nasal cannula that he now wore under his nose. A gaudy purple stocking cap with smiling flowers was pulled down to his ears. At the sight, all thoughts of the Commonwealth fled, instantly replaced by fresh worry for his young friend.

“What’s going on?” he asked, stepping up beside Harper’s bed, goosebumps breaking out on his skin because of the temperature. 

“The TB isn’t responding to the meds,” Harper explained with resignation. “Trance is trying alternative methods to at least control the symptoms until she can figure it out.”

“And those methods include turning you into a popsicle?” he asked incredulously.

Harper shrugged. “It is easier to breathe in the cold air,” he admitted. “My lungs and ribs thank her – the rest of me not so much.”

“Did Trance give you the hat?” Dylan asked as he snagged a couple of blankets from one of the other beds, wrapping them around himself before sitting on the chair by the engineer’s side.

“Yeah, why…?” Harper trailed off, a look of great alarm on his face. “It’s pink and covered in bunnies or princesses or something, isn’t it? I’m gonna kill her…”

“Just purple,” Dylan said with a laugh, wisely omitting mention of the flowers.

Harper shook his head in disbelief. “I knew something like this would happen.”

Dylan patted the boy’s blankets in mock comfort. “It looks very good on you,” he said, still laughing.

“Sure,” groused Harper.

“So, where’s Twig?” Dylan asked, missing the little boy.

“It’s too cold in here for him. Trance is showing him around the ship.” 

Dylan didn’t miss the pain in Harper’s voice as he explained and the captain knew the kid had hoped he would be the one to have that honor. 

“Would you let him come stay with you in your quarters tonight?” Harper continued. “He can’t stay here and I think he’d fall apart if we made him be by himself in quarters of his own.”

“Of course,” he answered at once. He loved the little boy fiercely and would do anything to help him, though he had no doubt that once Harper was released from Med-deck Twig would be staying with the engineer. Which meant that Harper might actually have to pick a spot to live – quarters, machine shop, Maru…

“Thanks,” the young man responded. “So, is it official?” he asked, leaning back against his pillows. “Is it Captain Dylan Hunt again?”

“Yeah,” Dylan answered, some of the frustration of before creeping back in. 

“What?” Harper asked, picking up on the tone in his answer immediately.

“Everything’s a mess.”

“So, same old, same old?”

Dylan let out a slightly bitter laugh, having to acknowledge the truth in his friend’s words.

“What is it you always say…?” Harper continued with a grin.

“…It’s never easy,” they both finished together. Dylan leaned back and laughed for real this time, then waited for Harper to ride through a harsh coughing fit.

“You should remember that, too,” he said gently once the convulsions had passed.

“I’m trying,” the boy said quietly. “I’m really trying.”

Dylan squeezed his friend’s shoulder carefully, smiling sadly. “I know.”

*****

“Wow…” 

The word slipped quietly from the little boy standing beside her. His eyes were as large as planets as he gazed around the room she’d just led him into.

“It’s so pretty!”

Trance smiled, remembering what felt like a lifetime ago when she’d had almost the same reaction to walking into Hydroponics for the first time. “This is my favorite room,” she said honestly. “Do you like it?”

The boy nodded. He was leaning forward as though he wanted to take off and explore but couldn’t quite act on the impulse, the years of conditioning as a slave still too strong. Sorrow swept through her. “Go ahead,” she said encouragingly. “You can look around.”

Twig hesitated, but she nodded again and he finally smiled, stepping off down one of the paths. She expected him to run through the grass and plants like most boys his age would, but instead he walked slowly, studying each plant or flower with a careful, serious expression.

“What’s this one called?” he asked, his curious fingers hovering over a bright, maroon flower.

“That’s a violet.”

“And this one?”

“A Vedran sunflower.”

“And what’s this green stuff?” the boy asked, staring with wonder at one of the small patches of grass Trance tended with care for the ship’s crew.

“That’s grass. Touch it,” she urged. 

He brushed it with his fingertips as though afraid it might bite him, but then his face instantly lit up. “It’s so soft!”

For a full five minutes he just stayed there, combing his fingers back and forth through the flexible blades. Trance smiled at his simple wonder, seeing her plants as she hadn’t for years thanks to the stunned awe of one discarded little boy.

“Can we bring Harper here?” Twig asked after a while. “I bet he would like to feel the grass, too.”

“You are probably right,” she answered, moved. “Yes, when he’s feeling better, we will bring him here to touch the grass.” She just hoped it wouldn’t make her friend more depressed, another reminder of what he couldn’t see anymore.

“Can you make him better?” the child asked her suddenly, his voice small and worried. His fingers stopped and he faced her, fear on his face. “He’s not going to die is he?”

Trance crouched down beside him and placed her hands on his thin arms. “No, Twig, I promise you I will not let him die,” she said fervently, promising to herself as much as to Twig.

“Okay,” he said, but Trance wasn’t sure he completely believed her. Death was still too much an unavoidable and unstoppable part of his life.

“Come here,” she said, standing again and extending a hand out to her young charge. “Want to see Dylan’s basketball court?”

“Oh yes!” the boy cried, jumping to his feet. “Dylan told me all about that. It sounds even more exciting than playing catch!”

“Well, then, let’s go look. You can start practicing and then challenge Dylan to a game. It can be our surprise.”

As she led the grinning child through the gardens to the court, Trance once again marveled at the resilience of the human spirit, as demonstrated by the forgotten little boy. This was why she still believed in the perfect possible future for all races, despite what her family would have her believe.


	68. Chapter 67

**Chapter 67**

_“Never go to a doctor whose office plants have died.”_

\- Erma Bombeck

*****

“So, did you bring your burlap sack?” Harper said as he sat on the med-bed, pulling his blankets tighter around his shoulders in the frigid air. He listened as his visitor slipped almost silently into the room.

“How did you know it was me, boy?” Tyr’s voice growled.

“Oh, please. Anyone with half a nose could smell your shampoo from a mile away.”

There was silence and Harper wondered if Tyr was pondering that, or getting ready to knock his head off. Finally, the big Niet spoke again.

“And why would I bring such a thing as a burlap sack with me, human?”

Harper rolled his sightless eyes and said in a sing-song voice, “ _Blind and crippled. If Andromeda were my child, I’d drown it._ Well, buddy, that would be me, blind and crippled, and burlap sacks are the traditional method for drowning small, pitiful creatures, so what are ya waiting for?”

“Are you asking me to do it?” Tyr’s voice sounded right next to his ear this time, making Harper jump.

“What? No! Of course not!” he cried, scooting away slightly. “I mean, not really…”

“So you feel you are worthless now?”

“Well, look at me!” Harper said bitterly, waving his crippled hands in front of his blind eyes before pushing the nasal cannula back into place.

“Are you telling me that you, the self-proclaimed genius, cannot think of a solution to these minor problems? What happened to _trust in the Harper, the Harper is good_?” The last part was echoed back to him in the same whiny voice he’d used earlier.

“Minor problems!” Harper cried, angry now. “You call these minor problems? Have you ever tried being blind, Mr. Uber Perfect? Having hands that don’t work?”

“No,” Tyr answered, and suddenly there were hands on his head, turning it to face the Niet’s position straight on. “Nor do I plan to. But I have been a slave, and I have crawled and clawed and fought my way up from there, watching those too weak and pitiful to survive fall by the wayside and die. And I will tell you this once and only once, Master Harper, you are stronger than that! So stop this childish self-pitying and get up and fight! Fight to get your life back!”

Harper jerked his head away, seething. For a long time, no one said a word, but as he sat there in the silence, he felt the fury begin to drain away. Finally, he rolled his eyes.

“Is that why you came all the way down here? To make me so angry I’d get better just to spite you? To give me another one of your crappy life and hope speeches? Because, believe me they have not gotten better with time.”

Suddenly, the room was filled with the sound of Tyr’s laughter. Harper rolled his eyes again.

“That,” the big man said after a moment, “and to give Trance the medical package from Sinti.”

Harper turned toward him in surprise. “Wait, what? You mean _you_ were the one that volunteered to go get that? For _me_?”

“Fight Harper,” was Tyr’s only answer, his voice sounding once again very close to his ear. “You are stronger than you think.” Then Tyr walked away, but he spoke one last time from the doorway. “Oh, and Harper? Trance wished for me to inform you that when she releases you from her care, I will be overseeing your physical therapy.”

“Ugh,” Harper groaned, leaning back against his pillows. “Just kill me now.”

Tyr’s laughter carried back to him as the Uber walked away.

*****

“Are you comfortable Harper?”

Harper nodded to Trance, trying not to show the tension he actually felt. The puckered, twisted scabs and tender new scars of his healing back were pressed against the padded exam table, still feeling slightly painful, but they weren’t the source of his real discomfort. No, that was the restraints that were currently circling his wrists and ankles. They were soft, meant to protect not punish, but they still sent his unease through the roof. He couldn’t help remembering that the last time he’d been bound to a table like this he’d ended up blind.

“Are these really necessary?” Beka spoke up, as if reading his mind, thumbing the restraints before letting her hand slide down to grasp his gently. He wished he could squeeze back but it was his worthless left hand so he could only turn his head and smile in her direction to show he was grateful.

“Unfortunately, yes. Once the eradication scan starts it cannot be interrupted. We have to be certain that Harper cannot accidentally move outside the field for the duration of the scan,” Trance answered.

Harper grimaced. This was the part of the “Get Harper Better” plan he was not excited about.

Tyr had returned from Sinti with good news and good drugs. The chin-heads had his strain of TB on file, the drugs and instructions to treat it, and somehow, through the Niet’s own special brand of negotiation, had been persuaded to share.

The treatment was a three step plan, modified slightly to account for his crappy immune system. The first part had been easy. He’d spent the night hooked up to an IV that pumped him full of nanobot enhanced drugs. The super-antibiotic-bots had hopefully been busy finding all the Tuberculosis cells hiding out in his body and attached to them.

Now they were ready to start the second step. The super drug would be activated by a special energy scan. While inside the field, the little antibiotic-bots would go to work, actively destroying the TB cells. In the space of four hours the super drug and scan could do what used to take six months to accomplish. And that was really awesome in Harper’s book, but the downside was it would also be really painful. All those nano-anti-whatevers dashing around his body fighting World War Fourteen? How could it not be – especially for a lowly, unmodified human like himself? But he was whole-heartedly in favor of four hours of intense pain over six more months of this stupid disease and the awful coughing. Pain and he were old buddies – he could deal with pain. Still, he wasn’t looking forward to it, and Trance had insisted on the restraints anyway, just in case.

Once this was all over, Harper would hopefully start feeling human again. He would still have to complete step three: a month’s worth of oral antibiotics to make sure all the bacteria was gone as TB had a nasty habit of hiding out in organs and tissues and then staging an ambush later when it was least expected, and a one week course of nanos to repair the sores and legions that had developed in his lungs in the last few months. But he would finally be able to get up and move around without coughing his head off! Finally be able to leave Med-deck and rejoin the land of the living!

Of course, he had no idea what he’d do after that, but he figured he’d deal with that later. One crisis at a time was all he could handle right now.

“And why can’t you give him any pain medication?” Beka asked, drawing Harper out of his own head and back into the room he was lying in.

“Does mixing drugs, Harper’s immune system, and this new scan technology sound like a good idea to you?” Trance replied.

“No, that sounds bad,” Harper answered before Beka could. “Very bad. So, how about we just get this over with?”

“Almost ready,” Trance replied, pausing for just a moment to brush a gentle hand through his cropped hair. He wished he could see the special smile he knew she was probably giving him.

“Dylan here?” he asked after a moment.

Dylan had been busy the last few days, settling back into command and all his captainly duties; he hadn’t seen him as much lately. Harper had kind of hoped his friend would stop in before this oh-so-fun treatment got underway.

“No,” Beka answered, still holding onto his hand. “Just me and Trance.” Harper thought he heard a twinge of sadness and maybe jealousy in her voice.

“Hey, you’re the best, Beks, and I’m so glad you’re here. I was just wondering.”

“All right. Beka, you need to move back now so we can start,” Trance interrupted before Beka could respond to him.

Beka patted his hand then stepped away, and Harper was left alone on the padded table, unable to move his arms or legs and trying not to succumb to the panic of memories and anticipated pain.

*****

The atmosphere of Med-deck was hushed when Dylan entered, only the steady hum of the green-tinted energy field that covered the exam table where Harper lay breaking the silence. A half-asleep Beka sat vigil a few feet away from the edge of the scan, her feet up on an unused bed and her head resting on her fist. She stirred, opening tired eyes as he approached.

“How is he?” Dylan whispered, nodding his head in Harper’s direction.

“Exhausted. His pain level’s been pretty steady. It’s not sky high but I can tell it’s bad despite what he tries to tell me. I think he’s finally managed to fall asleep, though.”

Dylan glanced at his young friend, frowning, before turning back to Beka.

“Go take a nap,” he said. “You’ll want to be awake when this is done. I’ll sit with him for a while.”

Beka opened her mouth to argue but a huge yawn escaped instead. She blushed and shook her head ruefully. “Okay, but wake me if anything changes.”

“Scout’s honor,” Dylan promised.

“You were a scout?” she asked around another yawn as she stood up.

“Three hundred plus years ago, yes,” he said with a smile.

“I’m not sure that’s still valid.”

“Once a scout, always a scout. Now, go sleep before you tip over and I have to place your sorry butt on one of Trance’s beds as well.”

“Going,” she said, yawning yet a third time.

Dylan watched her leave before stepping up as close to Harper’s bed as the scan field would allow. He frowned again, irrationally upset to see the restraints fastened around the boy’s wrists and ankles. If they brought back a slew of bad memories for him he could only imagine the effect they must be having on his friend. Harper lay ridged and tense, his forehead creased with fine lines that told Dylan of his stress and pain.

They also told him another thing – Harper was most certainly not sleeping.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Harper’s head turned almost imperceptibly in Dylan’s direction but he didn’t open his eyes. After a long moment he finally spoke.

“Dylan.” His voice was rough. “Can’t fool you, huh?”

“Not the first time I’ve watched you fake sleep to hide that you’re in pain,” Dylan answered sadly. “How bad is it?”

“Somewhere between standard Uber beating and hanging on a wooden cross,” the young man answered quietly.

An answer laced with sarcasm and yet also honest. It still felt like such an honor to be trusted by Harper with true answers, knowing full well that those truths went against his friend’s gut instinct of hiding.

“Honestly,” Harper continued, finally opening his eyes. “The worst part is not being able to move.” He gave a small tug against the bands holding his wrists before sighing in defeat. “Do you know how much longer I’ve got?”

Before Dylan could answer, Rommie’s hologram appeared beside him. “There are approximately one hundred and thirty-eight minutes remaining on the scan.”

Harper heaved another weary sigh and squeezed his eyes shut again.

“Trance and I are monitoring everything closely and you are doing well, Harper, but you need to tell us if the pain is too much,” Rommie said gently.

“I’m fine,” the young man lied, his teeth slightly clenched. “I’ll survive two more hours.”

Rommie blinked out, leaving them physically alone again, though Dylan had no doubt Andromeda was still watching and Trance was only a whisper away.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked, feeling helpless as he watched Harper lay there.

Harper gave a tiny shake of his head. “No. Stay. Just…maybe…we can not talk for a while?” Exhaustion and aching practically oozed from him as spoke.

“I think I can manage that,” Dylan said. “I can catch up on paperwork,” he joked.

He waited for the funny quip or flippant remark, but instead the kid just nodded. Another sign of just how much Harper was really hurting. “Try to rest, Mr. Harper,” he whispered, then moved over to the chair Beka had left empty, knowing it was going to be a very long two hours.

*****

“Everything looks really good, Harper,” Trance said, pleased with the results Andromeda was showing her on the screen. “It appears the scan and modified antibiotics have been able to eradicate ninety-seven percent of the TB cells! The oral medicine we will start tomorrow should have no trouble clearing out the rest. I’m going to shut the scan down now, okay?” 

Her patient gave an exhausted nod. 

She keyed in a few codes and the green field surrounding Harper fizzled out. Immediately, she realized just how tense he’d been when his whole body sagged back into the table, small tears of relief leaking out of the corners of his tightly shut eyes.

“Oh, Harper,” she said, instantly at his side, Beka and Dylan only a step behind her. Gently she wiped the tears away with her fingers before running them comfortingly through his hair, something she’d always done to sooth him when he was ill. “It’s okay, it’s done. And you did amazing.”

“So, is he cured?” Beka asked, hope in her voice for the first time in forever.

“Well, he will have to be careful because his lungs will be more susceptible to these types of diseases from now on, but as long as he completes the nano and antibiotic treatment I don’t see any reason he should not make a full recovery from this.”

“Thanks, Trance,” Harper finally muttered, sounding close to passing out.

“Sh, just rest now,” she told him, leaning down to kiss him on the cheek. “We can worry about the rest of the plan tomorrow.”

She expected him to relax and drift off almost immediately, he was so tired, but instead he shook his head, forcing his clenched eyes open.

“No. I can’t. Not here,” he said, a little panicked.

“Why not?” Trance asked, confused. Harper had been sleeping in her Med-deck since they arrived back on the ship and it had never bothered him before.

“Please. Just not on this table…with the…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but pulled against the restraints weakly. 

A light flashed on in her brain and she wanted to kick herself for being so stupid. Harper had just spent almost a year in chains and she wanted him to rest easily while strapped down to a table? She wasted no more time in releasing his ankles while Beka and Dylan took care of his wrists. Carefully, the captain helped Harper sit up, almost completely holding his weight.

“Thank you,” Harper whispered, practically asleep where he sat.

“Help him back to his bed in the private room,” she ordered her friends, moving ahead to make sure it was ready to receive him. As she fluffed the pillows and fixed the messy blankets, an odd lump near the foot caught her eye and she reached down, pulling out the saddest black mess of an old stuffed toy she’d ever seen.

She raised her eyebrow questioningly at Beka who had just entered with Dylan, Harper supported between them.

“Don’t ask,” Beka mouthed, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

Shaking her head, Trance turned back to the bed and placed the – well she thought it might be a stuffed cat – gently on the pillow where Harper would be sure to find it. Then together, the three of them managed to get the limp and exhausted engineer onto the bed and tucked in tightly.

“Get some sleep, Harper. I promise you are going to feel so much better in the morning.”

Harper never answered. He was already out like a light.


End file.
